


Instinct Blues

by Wynn



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, F/M, Loki is frustrated, Natasha is amused, Sexual Content, and clothes, and mysterious motives, and possibly helpful, or she simply wants to torment Loki, with apples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The first thing that Loki notices about his human form is his penis.</em>
</p><p>In punishment for his crimes, Odin transforms Loki into a human and sends him to Stark Tower. There, he discovers that Natasha will be his handler, a development that sends his new mortal form and its insistent hormones into a frenzy. Which, of course, Natasha notices and exploits. Based off a prompt at AvengerKink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Apple a Day

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the White Stripes song of the same name.

The first thing that Loki notices about his human form is his penis. Not the size, which he deems acceptable given his previous state as a god.

The sensitivity. 

The journey through the Bifrost to Midgard nearly brings him to his knees, the energy tossing Loki, and his penis, about without care for friction or restrictive leather pants. Gritting his teeth, he places a hand over the now tender portion of his anatomy to try to still the sensations, yet even the slight pressure from his hand causes his breath to hitch in his chest and his eyes to roll back in his head.

And this is how the Bifrost spits him out at the top of Stark Tower: Loki, flat on his ass, his hand on his dick, right at the feet of Natasha Romanov.

A beat passes in which she stares down at him and then she raises one brow, whether in amusement or disgust Loki doesn’t know. He stands with all the dignity that a former god can muster, brushing the dirt from his pants, careful to avoid _that_ area. She notices the evasion, of course she notices, yet she refuses to turn to grant him a moment of privacy. His soul twitches in rage at the humiliation and then his penis twitches as a wicked smirk appears on her face.

“I’ll let the others know that you’re still… adjusting to the transformation,” she says as she turns away.

A thousand cutting retorts evaporate at the sight of her hips swaying in her jeans as she walks back into the Tower.

*

When he adjusts, or as much as he is able for the moment, Loki follows Natasha inside. He finds the merry band awaiting him there, cast in a loose circle around the door. Barton glares at Loki so hard that Loki wonders if his head will explode from the pressure; the Captain regards him quietly, stoic and unflappable; Banner hovers at the back of the room, still uncomfortable in his skin, and Thor stands by the door, anxiety crackling from him as crisp as the lightning he conjures. 

Immediately before Loki stand Stark and Natasha. Stark gives no indication that he knows the particulars of his arrival, for which, he supposes, Loki should be grateful. He looks at Natasha now, and he feels his heart rate increase at the knowing look she sends his way. He holds the stare, unwilling to relent, unwilling to reveal her effect on him, though the longer the stare persists, the stronger the discord grows within him. 

Thankfully, Stark starts yammering about rules and rooms, and Loki turns his attention to him. Or he turns his eyes. His mind he allows to wander. Would this be his life as a mortal: an endless war with his dick? Loki shifts, uncomfortable with the notion, with the placement of said dick in his now heinously tight leather pants, and especially with the fact that Natasha watches him, the smirk still on her face. The uproar that her stare creates inside him causes Loki to panic. He had not reacted like this to her before, though he took great pleasure from their encounter at the cage. Was this just Natasha, or was this how he would react to all women he encountered now? If the first, at least he wouldn’t be subjected to her presence much longer, she, along with the rest of the team, sure to keep their distance. Why wouldn’t they, after what he—

But at that moment, something Stark says registers within Loki. “What did you just say?” he asks, the discomfort within him growing.

At his question, Stark sighs. “Great,” he says. “You’re deaf as well as evil.”

“Stark,” the Captain warns.

Stark rolls his eyes at the admonition. “I said,” he begins, looking at Loki, “that Agent Romanov has been assigned to be your keeper—”

“Handler,” Natasha corrects.

“Babysitter?” Stark counters. He relents when Natasha turns to glare at him. “Fine. Handler. The point is, Pinocchio, she’ll help you adjust to life as a real boy.” He pauses then, and a nasty smile appears on his face. “I don’t think we have to tell you what happens if you don’t play nice.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “You’ll transform me into a toad then?” 

“No, I’ll throw _you_ out the window. And trust me, you won’t like the landing.”

Loki returns Stark’s smile. “You may try—”

“Okay,” the Captain says, stepping between them. “Enough. This has been a hard day for all of us.”

“Yes, it has,” Natasha murmurs, just loud enough for Loki to hear.

He glares at her, but she keeps her gaze fixed on the Captain, who says something; Loki ignores him as he had Stark. He shifts again, his unease with his new form growing. He feels hot and he itches and even now he can feel his body dying, only seventy more years before him if he lives the full life of a mortal. The thought of those last few putrefying decades makes him sick, or maybe that was the Bifrost, or extended exposure to Stark and his face. Was Loki hungry? His armor weighed so much now. And the gravity of this realm felt strange, too light, or maybe that was Loki. He—

“Loki.”

Loki starts. He realizes he is alone with Natasha, the others having left during his rambling inner monologue. How did these people triumph over him if they possessed the attention span of a gnat, thousands of thoughts swirling inside such tiny minds? 

He looks at Natasha. She peers at him, studying him. Loki strives to keep his face blank, refusing to give her anything, even the slightest advantage over him. Her eyes flit to the door and then back to Loki, but she refrains from comment, merely turning and saying to him, “I’ll show you to your rooms.”

Loki nods and follows, pausing a moment to throw up in one of Stark’s plants before they leave. 

*

Three rooms compose his new quarters, a parlor, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The three in total are smaller than even the tiniest room in the palace on Asgard, but the bed is of serviceable size, the windows on the far wall in the parlor and the bedroom afford Loki a decent view of the city that he had tried to conquer, and the bathroom contains a shower large enough for him to try to successfully wash off the grime of mortality.

Natasha leads him from the bathroom back into the bedroom. She points to a closet by the head of the bed and says, “There are some clothes in there if you want to change. Nothing remarkable. Just a few items to get you through the week. Once Asgard and S.H.I.E.L.D. settle on a budget for you, we can buy more.”

We. The thought agitates him. Then his agitation agitates him. Loki paces the length of the room, waiting for Natasha to leave, but she does not. She stays where she stands, examining him once more. He cannot read the look in her eyes, and at that, his respect for her rises, her ability to remain impassive given the chaotic nature of the human form remarkable. And irritable, given Loki’s inability to do so.

“Is that all?” he asks, testy. And horny. And queasy again, and maybe hungry, too. 

Natasha raises a brow. “Yes,” she says. “For now. If you need anything, tell Jarvis and he’ll alert me. My rooms are down the hall—”

At that, Loki stills. “What?”

“So you weren’t listening to Steve either,” she says, a small smile on her face. “I thought so.”

Loki refuses to confirm her suspicions. Instead, he narrows his eyes and takes a step toward her. Fear, he has found, is the most successful of diversions. “Does it unsettle you, Agent Romanov, knowing what will lurk mere feet from where you slumber?”

“Does it unsettle you?” she asks, far from afraid, glancing down at his traitorous penis with an arch of her brow. 

Loki glares at her for that, which elicits another smile from Natasha. She turns toward the door, glancing back at him before she leaves. The glance agitates him further. “Pleasant dreams,” she says, shutting the door softly behind her and finally, blessedly, leaving Loki alone.

*

He does not dream that night, but he does christen the bathroom the next morning, Natasha on his mind and his hand on his dick as he comes in the steam of the shower.

*

“Why her?” he asks a few hours later.

Fury looks up from the pile of paperwork spread on a table before him: the terms and conditions of Loki’s term on Earth. “Why her what?” he asks, annoyed at the interruption.

“Why has Agent Romanov been assigned to monitor my activities on Midgard?”

Fury stares at Loki trying, he supposes, to discern the motivation behind the query. Again, Loki keeps his face blank, denying him access. After a moment, Fury sighs and says, “Agent Barton volunteered, but we figured that was probably so he could kill you while you slept. Nobody trusted Stark to actually teach you anything worthwhile. Thor and Rogers know about as much about life on Earth as you do, so that would be the blind leading the blind. So that left Banner and Romanov, and you’d probably piss off Banner enough to make him turn into the Hulk in about five minutes, and I doubt you want that, especially with you being all fragile and human now.”

Loki can find no flaw in the logic, but the doubt lingers in his mind. Natasha must be a secret form of torture for him; why else would his mortal form react the way that it does around her?

“Why?” Fury asks him now. “Is there some reason you don’t want her around?” 

Something in his tone makes Loki think that Natasha told him everything about Loki’s arrival the day before. Straightening his shoulders, he says, “No. She’s perfectly adequate.” 

At that, Fury stands and hands him the pen. “That’s funny,” he says, waiting for Loki to sign the papers. “She said the same thing about you.”

*

The torment begins in earnest later that day. Natasha meets him at the door to his rooms to give him a tour of the Tower. She still wears her nefarious jeans along with a pair of tall boots and a purple sweater. Loki follows her, his brain attempting to focus on her words as she indicates where he can and cannot go according to Stark’s inane rules, but _other_ parts of his anatomy demand his attention be placed elsewhere. Her hips. Her legs. The dip of her waist and the arch of her neck.

Breathing in, Loki keeps his focus fixed at a point about half a foot above her head. He may no longer be a prince, either to Asgard or Jotunheim, but he will not be a slave to ridiculous human hormones either. Especially not in front of or due to Agent Natasha Romanov.

*

When they return to their floor, Natasha turns right and indicates for him to follow. She enters the next door down the hall, leading him to a kitchen. He pauses in the entrance, staring down the hall to the last door, the door that he knows leads to her rooms.

“Do you want to see them?” she asks.

Loki grits his teeth. “No.” 

Yes.

Amused, she begins to explain the various contraptions used by Midgardians to prepare meals. Most of the food in the refrigerator requires little effort, made for her in advance by S.H.I.E.L.D. The device to make coffee intrigues Loki, as do the neat bottles of alcohol in one of the cabinets.

Natasha catches him eyeing the liquor. “You can eat whatever you want,” she says, “but if you eat the last of something, tell Jarvis so he can order more. If you order something just for you, and I find it first, I’ll probably eat it, so you should order enough for the both of us. Also, I’m not your cook. If you want food, you make it, but I won’t fix something just for you. I’ll share with you if I’m making food. I expect you to do the same.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes.”

At that, Loki smirks. “What if I dislike sharing?”

The smile that spreads across her face snatches his breath and sends most of his blood shooting straight to his dick. Natasha starts toward him, and Loki holds his ground until he realizes that she doesn’t intend to stop. He retreats, trying not to reveal his fluster when he bumps into the counter mere seconds later. She stops before him; Loki knows that space exists between them because he doesn’t feel her against him, but he cannot see it.

“I think you’ll find the benefits of sharing easily outweigh the detriments,” she says, peering up at him. The light shines on the gloss covering her lips, and he stares, mesmerized, then horrified by his fascination. He is a god. He was a god. Oh god, now she’s leaning in. His hands clutch the counter as her right arm slides by his body to reach for something behind him; she is careful not to touch him, but that, Loki finds, the lack of a touch, is worse. 

Seconds pass, or hours, Loki cannot tell, before she pulls back. “Apple?” she asks, mischief clear in her eyes, holding the round, ripe fruit before him.

The light shines on the fruit as it shone on her gloss. He wants to seize the apple and smash it in her face; he wants to fluster her and press her back against the counter. Before he can do either, the intercom crackles and Jarvis says, “A phone call for you, Ms. Romanov. Director Fury to inquire about your progress.”

“Thank you, Jarvis. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Loki waits for Natasha to leave so that he can breathe and adjust and then retreat to his room to work through the temptations of the day, but instead she remains, her eyes on him. “How is my progress?” she asks after a moment, the apple still in her hand.

Loki looks at the apple and then at Natasha, and he narrows his eyes. He will not bow. He will not give in. Not to her. “Perfectly adequate,” he says.

His response elicits another smile from Natasha. She lifts the apple and takes a bite; juice catches in the corner of her mouth, and his knees nearly buckle as her tongue darts out to lap the drop. She leans in and places the apple on the counter behind him and then she says, “Good to know,” before turning to leave the room.

*

The next day she arrives to teach him about contemporary electronics. She hands him a stack of plastic and glass objects, the largest, according to her, a computer— a laptop— provided to help him learn about the realm. The others she designates as a tablet and a cell phone, the latter to be used only for emergencies. 

Loki follows her to the desk before the window in his parlor. She wears a t-shirt emblazoned with a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo today; Loki found a stack of those monstrosities in the closet beside his bed. He had contemplated tossing the shirts out the window in protest, but the pull of the cotton across her breasts makes him reconsider.

He manages to drag his eyes away from her chest by the time Natasha turns to him and indicates for him to sit at the desk. He watches as she activates the computer, as she demonstrates the various parts and their functions. As she explains, he detects some scent, not perfume, but soap, clean and fresh, and the thought of her in the shower makes his head spin. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, determined to remain calm, the superior to his body, but he feels her move beside him, and he remembers the tip of her tongue, as red as the apple, and the look in her eyes as she stared at him the day before, as she tempted him, and he cannot breathe, his blood burning at the thought of her, but he needs to breathe, his chest burning for air, but he cannot breathe, the scent of her dizzying, but he needs to breathe, black spots appearing now in his vision, but he cannot breathe, but he needs to breathe, but he cannot—

She touches his wrist, her palm warm, and at the touch, Loki shoves back from the desk and strides from the parlor, slamming the door shut behind him.

In the bedroom, he paces. In the bedroom, he seethes. In the bedroom, he fidgets and he listens and he frowns and he kicks at the bed and then gasps at the pain in his foot before flopping back onto the bed, exhausted, tormented by her, by the perpetual rush of humanity, by the thoughts and the needs and the desires and the drives within him, insistent, relentless, and ruthless. 

Through the door, Loki hears Natasha approach. He could escape to the bathroom, but she would only follow there, too, insistent, relentless, and ruthless, so he closes his eyes and waits. After a moment, she opens the door. Loki expects her to speak, but she does not; her silence frustrates him, the examination it implies, the judgment, too much. Opening his eyes, he looks at her; she leans against the frame, her arms folded over her chest, her face impassive. Her composure irritates as much as her silence.

“I hate you,” he says, his voice hard.

“I know,” she says. “I didn’t think it was the computer.”

“I don’t like that either. The glare vexes.”

Her mouth twitches at the criticism, but rather than galling him more, the hint of a smile soothes. The soothing, though, nettles him, further proof of her ability to affect him. Pushing off the bed, Loki resumes his pacing, his eyes fixed on Natasha. She holds his gaze, her face still impassive, the calm center to his frenzied orbit.

“Does nothing affect you?” he asks after a moment.

“Things do,” she says.

“Such as?”

His question prompts a raise of her brow. “Why?” she asks. “Do you want to affect me?”

Loki stops now and turns toward her. “I should ask you the same question, Agent Romanov. An apple? Really? Even I am aware of the symbolism.”

Natasha merely shrugs in response, the beginnings of a smile on her face, but her delight in him infuriates him now. He closes the distance between them. Natasha straightens as he approaches, but she stands her ground. Looming, his voice low, Loki says, “I may no longer be a god, Agent Romanov, but I am still me, and you tread on dangerous ground.”

A beat passes in which they stare at each other and then Natasha smirks. “When haven’t I?” she asks, her eyes on him. The boldness of her gaze intoxicates Loki and infuriates him. He does not know what he wants to do more: slay her or seduce her. In his indecision, she eases back. His hands clench by his sides, but he allows her to retreat, exercising, at least, a modicum of self-control.

Natasha stops in the middle of the parlor and holds out one hand toward the desk. “Jarvis will monitor your online activity, report anything suspicious to Tony,” she says and then she pauses. Her gaze drops to his pants, and her smirk widens into a grin as she turns to leave. “So I would avoid the porn,” she says. “At least for now.”

*

Loki avoids the porn, but not his first dream about Natasha. 

He waits in the cage in the Helicarrier, and she comes to him as she had before, but this time she wears her diabolical jeans and a S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt instead of her uniform. He watches as she enters the cage, that wicked smirk that he loves and loathes on her face. She stops before him and his clothes vanish. His helmet, though, remains, but now on her.

Natasha inspects him, her gaze a slow caress. This time, Loki allows her to look. Once finished, she meets his eyes and says, “Perfectly adequate.”

To which Loki replies, “Kneel.”

And she does. His hands settle upon the horns and then—

A distant siren yanks Loki from the dream. He wakes, shaking and hard, the image of Natasha on her knees still in his mind. Swallowing, he tumbles from the bed, his legs tangling in the sheets and blankets, and then he lurches to the bathroom, to the glorious shower, in order to rectify his unfortunate, and in no way merely adequate, situation.

*

Later, he sits in the parlor, and then he stands, and then he paces the length of the room, waiting for her. She will come, he knows. Though this is only the third day, the pattern has already been established. Loki wakes, Natasha arrives, and then he spends the next few hours waging war with his body, this form acute in its desire of her. 

At that, Loki grimaces. Not his body. Him. He had desired her before; he had merely controlled himself then. Now, he cannot. But the desire is the same. But why wouldn’t he desire her? Natasha is beautiful, but more than that, she is devious, and this, this he cannot resist. From the moment Loki arrived, Natasha pressed the new advantage that she acquired over him, and if he were in her position, he knows that would do the same. But Loki is not in her position. He is in _his_ position, and his position demands resistance. He will not submit, he _cannot_ submit, not to this form, not to this realm, and especially not to this inane punishment devised for him by Odin.

Therefore, he cannot submit to Natasha.

Though the thought appeals.

Intensely.

She knocks then, a swift rap in the center of the door. Loki glances down at his dick and sighs. Already it stirs. Shaking his head, he crosses to the door, opens it, and then promptly shuts it, turning away. “This is beyond devious,” he mutters, beginning to pace again. “This is fiendish. This is contemptible. This is—”

“A dress,” she says. 

Loki turns. It certainly was. An elegant black, slim but not tight, with a thin gold belt. The front narrows to a deep V between her breasts. Loki tries not to stare, but he can he not? She wears diamonds in her ears and heels instead of boots, and, as she moves into the room, he breathes in something that smells like perfume.

“Why?” he asks.

Natasha quirks a brow at the detectable strain in his voice. “We’ve shut down an entire Saks so that you can buy some clothes and other things you might need. One of us, at least, should look like we have the money to do that.” 

She eyes him then and so does Loki. He wears now an odd mixture of his armor and the clothes provided for him by S.H.I.E.L.D., unable to bear the weight of all that he wore from Asgard. Next to Natasha, he feels slovenly, a fool before royalty. 

The notion burns.

Turning from her, he strides from the room, resisting the urge to slam the door again behind him. What good would it do when she has no choice but to follow? At the elevator, he punches the call button and waits, both for the elevator and for her.

The door to his rooms opens and then shuts. Loki hears Natasha walk down the hall toward him, but he does not turn. She stops beside him, and he waits for her to speak, for her to unleash some arch and vexing comment designed to drive him mad, but when she speaks, her voice lacks any hint of mockery or scorn. Instead, he detects sympathy when she says, “I wore a bloodied dress for about a week when I first came to S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

Loki turns to her then; he finds her peering at his shirt, a small smile on her face. “I would have killed for a t-shirt,” she continues, glancing up at him, “which is probably why they left me in the dress for so long.” 

Loki sees mirth in her eyes, genuine delight rather than the previous amusement taken at his expense. The sight again soothes and disarms, flusters and beguiles. The elevator arrives, and she steps inside, and Loki watches as she turns, a graceful spin on her toes, to press the button for the ground floor. After a moment, he follows, pulled behind, a wave to the shore. 

*

The store is empty save for them, a salesman, and a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents standing discreetly by the exits. Natasha escorts him to the back of the store, to three racks of clothing beside a small room concealed by a curtain. Loki watches as she sits in a chair beside a mirror and pulls a phone from her bag, presumably to message Fury of their arrival, then he turns to the clothes and begins his search.

He anticipated an endless slog through heinous Midgardian fashion given the atrocious attire worn by Stark, Banner, and Barton, but the selection before him immediately appeals. He finds suits similar to those that he wore before as well as a variety of separates, soft sweaters in grey and blue, pants in wool and gabardine, boots, gloves, and even scarves. As his hand hovers over a crisp white shirt, he feels Natasha watching him; he meets her gaze, and it is then he knows that she chose the array before him. 

“Do you approve?” she asks before he can determine his feelings regarding her keen assessment of him. “Or do you find them to be merely adequate?”

Amusement again brightens her eyes. Smirking, Loki lifts a few items from the racks. “They suffice,” he says, turning for the room to change.

Before the mirror, he removes the shirt from S.H.I.E.L.D., discarding it behind him with a flick of his wrist. He hesitates at his boots and pants, remnants of his armor, of his life before. He does not mourn Asgard, only the loss of capability, centuries and realms reduced now to decades and rooms. Loki supposes Odin would restore him if he repented, if he reformed, but the thought of supplicating before the All-Father sickens him, so he bends over and begins to unlace his boots.

Better defiance in hell than servility in heaven.

Better Natasha as jailer than Heimdall or Thor.

At the thought of Natasha, Loki closes his eyes. He cannot read her or her intentions toward him. She assists him because she must, he knows, but at times he detects sympathy for him. At other times, though, he detects pure evil, a desire to torment him into insanity. If he were as he was, he could clarify her obscurity, but if Loki were as he was, there would be nothing for him to clarify, loathing the only intent that she would have for him.

Swallowing at that, unwilling to examine the thought, Loki dons the suit, grey, with the white shirt over which he paused before. The shirt fits, but the jacket hangs loose around his shoulders. Loki turns to alert Natasha when the curtain opens and she steps into the room. She closes the curtain again behind her and hands him the shoes that she holds, then she inspects the suit, her eyes narrowed. The pants and the shirt pass without comment, but Natasha frowns at the jacket. Her gaze fixed on the collar, she takes a step toward him and says, “Can I check the size? I want to pull another.”

Loki nods. He watches as she closes the distance, her hips swaying in the dress, and it is then, in her distraction, in his moment of maximum advantage, that he leans down and kisses her.

Natasha stills beneath him. Loki raises a hand to her face, tilts her head back, and draws on over nine hundred years of experience to make her as flustered and bothered as she has made him. He parts her lips and tastes the gloss that so dazzled him before. Her breath catches in her chest and her pulse quickens, and Loki would smile were it not for the pounding of his heart at the warmth of her skin, how his head spins from the scent of her perfume.

He pauses to draw in breath, and in the pause, Natasha moves, pushing up into him and into the kiss. Loki bites back a moan as she bites his lip, as her tongue touches his. Nothing matters but her fingertips that travel down his back and whether or not they tremble, and all that matters is his fingertips that caress her arm and whether or not _they_ tremble, because he cannot submit, he cannot yield.

She must.

Footsteps approach. Natasha eases back, but she does not release him; Loki opens his eyes, and his hand convulses at the sight of her, her lips slick, her skin flushed. She looks at him, and he sees the gleam in her eyes, the challenge. He meets her gaze and raises a brow.

He will not submit. 

He will not yield.

She will.

They step apart as the footsteps stop outside the curtain. “Ms. Rushman?” the salesman asks, his voice cool and decorous.

Natasha smoothes a hand over her hair as Loki straightens his shirt. He turns to the mirror as she turns to the curtain, then he adjusts his dick, aching at the thought of her, from the feel of her, as she opens the curtain to the salesman.

“Yes?” she asks.

In the mirror, Loki sees the salesman eye him and then Natasha, but the prospect of a sale halts any comment. He says instead, “Does the gentleman approve?” turning to her.

A beat passes and then Natasha lays a hand on the salesman’s elbow. “Yes,” she says as she leads him from the room. “I believe that he does.”

*

Part Two coming soon.


	2. To Err is Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hours after the kiss, Fury pulls Natasha for a mission. A new development in an old case, she said, nothing more, nothing related to Loki or to what occurred in the department store mere hours before.

Two hours after the kiss, Fury pulls Natasha for a mission. A new development in an old case, she said, nothing more, nothing related to Loki or to what occurred in the department store mere hours before.

The development appeals to no one except Thor, who Natasha had evidently been keeping at bay since Loki arrived. One hour after her departure, after the elevator doors closed before her as she stared at Loki and smiled, he appears, knocking so lightly at first that Loki does not hear. 

Not until he speaks. Which, of course, he does.

“Loki? It is Thor. I come to inquire about your progress.”

At the desk in his parlor, Loki scowls. He sits before his computer, researching human anatomy. Though the machine still glares, he discovered after his aborted lesson with Natasha that it had its uses, primarily music and information, and he needs information now if he is to triumph in this contest of wills with Natasha, information, in particular, about Midgardian females. He finds them thankfully as similar to Aesir women as his mortal form is to an Aesir man; he hopes they are as sensitive as his cursed body is too, otherwise no amount of information will sufficiently counter the demands of his insistent hormones and his ravenous dick.

Thor knocks again, louder this time. “Loki? I know you are present. I only—”

Loki rolls his eyes and turns up the volume on his laptop, drowning out Thor with a symphony by Beethoven. If he tried, Thor could turn the knob and come in as none of the doors to Loki’s rooms contain locks, but Loki knows that Thor will not, Thor nothing if not the son of royalty, manners and protocol instilled within him since birth. So he sits and waits and continues his search. 

A minute passes and then Thor tries again. “Loki,” he shouts over the music. “I must speak with you. Agent Romanov left a message that I must relay to you.”

At that, Loki stills. He glances over his shoulder at the door. If Natasha had a message for him, wouldn’t she have told it to him before she left? Or, if not that, wouldn’t she have used the phone she provided him to communicate? Perhaps she had not had time for either, but if she had not had time for those, how would she have had time for Thor? Loki narrows his eyes. Could this be a trick designed to force him to open the door, Thor tempting him with a message from Natasha? Loki considers the idea for a moment, a slight frown on his face, before dismissing it. How could Thor know that Loki would respond in such a way to a message from Natasha? It’s possible she reported what’s occurred between them to Fury, who, in turn, relayed the news to Thor, but this Loki doubts. He suspects that what occurs between she and him occurs between them and them only, Natasha as private in her affairs as Loki. Besides, Thor would never resort to such underhanded measures in order to resume communication; he would burst through the door with all the subtlety of a Bilgesnipe and demand conversation, not devise a lie and sneak in under false pretenses.

He is, after all, not Loki.

Natasha must then have decided to relay the message through Thor because it would add an extra layer of torment for Loki, perhaps because of the content of the message or simply the torture of speaking to the messenger. In all likelihood both. This Loki would expect from her, especially given the determination in her eyes after he kissed her, her desire to triumph over him as intense as his is over her.

But this he cannot allow. He cannot allow her to triumph over him in any capacity, especially not through Thor. Turning back to the laptop, Loki lowers the volume on the symphony. “What is the message?” he asks, looking back at the door.

There is silence, Thor, no doubt, surprised by his response, and then he says, his voice calm yet firm, “Loki, I will not converse through the door.”

Loki waits, but Thor says nothing further, and, after a moment, his hand tightens on the back of the chair. To open the door or not to open the door? Loki wants to know the message, even if Natasha succeeds in increasing his torment; he needs information, and the message, no matter how insignificant, is still information, especially concerning her approach to the game. But the only thing worse for Loki than life as a mortal is a conversation with Thor about his life as a mortal. However, the only decent aspect to his life as a mortal is this challenge that Natasha has laid before him, and the only exceptional aspect to his life as a mortal is if he wins, so, gritting his teeth, Loki turns back to his computer, pauses the music, and then stands and walks to the door.

He finds Thor clad in Midgardian clothes, a pair of jeans and an atrocious plaid shirt. His former brother smiles, hesitant, yet still pleased at the progress, the door open and conversation now imminent. “How—” he asks, but Loki interrupts him before actual communication proceeds.

“The message?”

The smile dims, but does not vanish completely. Peering beyond Loki to the parlor, Thor says, “May I come in? I would not wish for such a conversation in the hall.”

Loki ignores the request. Instead he stares at Thor, his eyes narrowed. Ten seconds, then twenty pass, and still he stares, his instincts, buried, dulled beneath his humanity, stirred to suspicion. A further ten seconds tick by and then he sees it, the sign, the tell, the slight flare of the nostrils that always indicated an attempt at deception by Thor in the past, the reason why he had abandoned such subtlety in favor of blunt honesty in their youth. 

There is no message.

Thor had tried to lie. 

To him. 

Loki. 

He who transformed trickery and deceit from skills into art.

Anger twists his gut at the realization. Stepping back into his room, Loki moves to slam the door in Thor’s face, but Thor places a hand on the door and stops him. Loki glares at the hand. He contemplates finding something within his rooms to use to bludgeon the offensive digits before he remembers that he is mortal and Thor is not so whatever Loki could wield as a weapon, no matter how heavy or sharp, would only feel like a pleasant tickle to Thor. That thought, his complete and utter powerlessness against his former brother, enrages him further, and he pushes against the door until his efforts cause his feet to start to slide on the carpet.

Thor sighs, but he does not release his hold on the door. “Loki, please do not be angry with Agent Romanov.”

At the mention of Natasha, Loki stills. He straightens, confusion cooling the rage within him. “Why would—” he asks but then he stops, the pieces falling into place. Thor, simple, guileless, forthright Thor, did not conceive the lie. Natasha did. “She told you to say this,” he says, his gaze upon Thor intent. “She told you to say you had a message from her if I refused you entry.”

Thor hesitates, lowering his hand, but then he nods.

Dismissing the question of when, for Thor must have seen her after she left Loki but before she left for her mission, if there even is a mission, she may simply be somewhere else in the Tower, watching him and studying, but he dismisses that thought, he can’t prove it, not until she returns and he can question her, so now he dismisses the question of when and focuses on why. Did she send Thor here merely to agitate him? Given his history with Loki, Thor would succeed the most, and the easiest, out of the remaining team, yet Loki rejects the idea after a moment, the action too simple for Natasha and thus for them. But if not this, then what? Did she want Loki to actually converse with Thor? He does not remember this as part of the terms for his stay. In fact, he knows he would have refused the agreement had reconciliation been one of the demands he must fulfill. So, again, if not that, then what?

“Loki?”

Loki blinks, pulled from his thoughts. He looks at Thor, who stares at him, concern in his eyes. 

“Are you—?”

“Why did she tell you to speak this lie?” Loki asks, striving to keep the intensity from his voice, his need to know. “Why did she send you here?”

“I asked to come before,” Thor says, “but she advised patience. With her absence, however, you must meet with someone from the team. She thought you would prefer me to Dr. Banner or the archer Barton. Tony Stark volunteered, but given your threats to each other, Agent Romanov declined, leaving myself and the Captain.”

“And she chose you?” Loki asks.

Thor nods.

A moment passes in which Loki stares at Thor, attempting to decide between a desire to torment and a desire to help as the motive within Natasha. In his hesitation, Thor’s smile resurfaces, the hesitation, to him, an encouraging sign. A sign of reconciliation. Of remorse. Of regret.

The smile rekindles the cooling rage within Loki. He takes a step back and his hand tightens on the door as he says, “Send the Captain next time,” and then he slams the door in Thor’s face.

*

Hours later, the thought still burns.

Did she mean to torment him or to help him? To torment him or to help him?

Loki paces the parlor, his eyes on the neat stack of clothes. She chose clothes that wouldn’t just fit or suffice. She chose clothes that he would like. Why? In other clothes, functional clothes, he might complain, but who would care about his complaints? Perhaps Thor, more in an attempt to bond with Loki than actual concern, his atrocious shirt evidence of his indifference to clothing, but the rest of the team would react with apathy or would derive pleasure from his discomfort. Loki anticipated that Natasha would as well, even with the sympathy she expressed prior to their visit to the store, yet the selections she made indicate an attempt to ease the strain of this strange new form, this unfamiliar life.

Why? Could helping be a form of torment? Does Natasha know how much Loki detests this, this body and this realm, how much he loathes his ignorance of this world, himself, and her? Could this be a sign to him of her knowledge in her superiority, of her ability to affect all aspects of his life, to shape his incarceration in any way she chooses?

Or does she, strangely, surprisingly, alarmingly, just want to help?

His agitation grows the longer he debates, the longer an answer evades his grasp. Leaving his rooms, he walks to the kitchen. In the distance, the door to her quarters beckons. There, perhaps, he could discover an answer to his queries, clues to inform him of the ways in which her mind works, but to enter would admit his curiosity. To enter would admit that he cannot comprehend her on his own, would confirm he is no longer the man he was, even in a reduced form.

To enter would admit defeat, and this he can never do.

Jaw clenched, he enters the kitchen. Perhaps he could burn the clothes in the oven, watch as they dissolve into flame and ash, but then, he knows, they would provide for him the most barbaric attire in retribution for his destruction and, with these, he could never triumph.

And triumph he must.

*

Loki’s plan fails as his plans tend to do. Food does not lessen his discomfort. Neither does sleep, which comes in fits and starts, plagued by dreams of mortality and Natasha. 

The shower in the morning, usually his refuge, proves as useless, cleansing his body only. Doubt still hounds his mind. Loki thought Natasha interacted with him because she must, Fury had said as much when Loki questioned him before, yet Fury lies. In Asgard, Thor had revealed to him that Agent Coulson lived, that Fury had lied to the team to spur them into action against him. Why wouldn’t he lie to Loki, too? 

But if he had, if Fury lied, if Natasha had chosen to be his handler rather than Fury ordering her to be, the question remained: why? Why would she choose this? Did she do it to torment or to help him?

To torment him or to help?

Midmorning, his stomach churns from the debate. Loki sits and then stands and then paces; he stares out the window before staring at his clothes before staring at his reflection in the mirror. He feels prickly and hot, and he breathes in, his mouth a thin, hard slash across his jaw.

It is then a knock sounds at the door, different from Thor’s, two quick, firm raps in the center. Crossing the parlor, Loki finds the Captain on the other side. He wears a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, which makes Loki grimace, and ugly brown pants, and they stare at each other in silence a moment before the Captain raises a brow. “Bad night?” he asks.

Loki tries not to reveal his surprise. “No.”

The Captain blinks at the terse reply and raises the other brow. 

“No,” Loki says again, determined to remain cool and collected, but he tenses from the effort and his hand tightens again on the door. 

The Captain eyes him. Loki withstands the stare as best he can, but he shifts, his body restless; his eyes dart from the Captain to the dark depths of the hall, to where Natasha’s rooms lie. She asked if he wanted to see her rooms before; maybe a genuine offer lay behind the query. Maybe she wants him to see her quarters for some reason, maybe him inspecting her rooms is the next step in their game, maybe—

“What do you think of exercise?”

Loki blinks, his focus jerked back to the Captain. He frowns a moment and then he says, “What?”

“Exercise. Do you know—?”

“Yes,” Loki snaps. “I know what exercise is. I’m not so ignorant of Midgardian culture as to be unaware of so simple a concept.”

“I never said you were,” the Captain says, unfazed by Loki’s irritation. “I was going to ask if you knew about the gym on the forty-second floor. If not, I could show you.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“You seem kind of… stressed. Some exercise might help. It did for me when I woke up from the ice.”

Loki stares at the Captain, torn between his initial inclination to refuse all assistance and his recognition of his current state of unease. If he does not find some way to ease his agitation, he will be easy prey to Natasha when she returns. Yet accepting the offer confirms the Captain’s conclusions of his level of stress, which he could then share with Fury. Or Thor. Or Natasha. 

Loki does not know which would be worse.

He stands, still torn, and the pressure within him rises. Loki feels his heart beat in his ears and his mouth goes dry, and the image of Natasha smirking down at him as he lay at the top of Stark Tower with his hand on his dick flashes in his mind. Jerking his hand off the door, he steps into the hall and says to the Captain, “Show me.”

*

They descend to the gym where the Captain identifies various machines and demonstrates their use, thankfully refraining from other queries and comments in the process. A large mat spans the entirety of the left side of the room, for calisthenics and sparring, according to the Captain, the associated weapons stored in a locked cabinet in the back of the room. The thought of a weapon appeals to Loki, his mortal powerlessness infuriating, but even with a weapon, he knows that Stark in his armor, Banner as the Hulk, Thor, and the Captain could all triumph over him in combat. Banner as Banner and Stark outside of his armor Loki could overpower, but Barton and Natasha he does not know. A millennia of fighting experience would indicate his advantage, even without the aid of his magic, but he doesn’t know the stamina of this form, its strength, or its responsiveness to command, and weapons such as Barton and Natasha would require peak physicality in order to subdue. 

Given his persistent fluster in the presence of Natasha and his present state of disquiet, Loki doubts the ability of his body to respond to anything but base instinct, and his instinct demands a different form of domination for Natasha.

Squirming at the thought, he watches as the Captain points to a door that leads to a room to the right. “There’s a changing room and showers through here,” he says and then he pauses. Peering at Loki, he takes in his shoes, his sharp suit. After a moment, he asks, “Do you have clothes to work out in? T-shirts, shorts—”

“I still possess the abominations provided for me by S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Loki thinks he sees a glint of amusement in the Captain’s eyes at the flippant comment. Nodding once, he says, “You’re free to use the gym any time you like, but don’t—”

“Touch the weapons or Stark will send his killer robots after me?”

Now the Captain grins. “Something like that.” He pauses again, his eyes on Loki. As he stares, the smile fades, and Loki holds his breath, waiting, dreading concern, the attempt at connection, at aid and reconciliation. “If you need anything—” he begins, but as with Thor, Loki ceases the talk before it begins.

“I won’t.”

But the Captain will not be deterred. “If you need anything, tell Jarvis and he’ll contact me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll stop by again, same time tomorrow, okay?” He waits, but Loki does not respond. The Captain sighs and then leaves, giving Loki a final look, a quick assessing glance, as the door shuts between them.

When Loki is sure that he is gone, he turns and heads for the changing room to begin.

*

First, strength. In Asgard, he helped move mountains with Thor. He threw boulders the size of his current quarters, and this without any magical reinforcement. With the aid of his magic, his strength equaled that of Heimdall. But now, now Loki looks at the machine, for bench-pressing according to the Captain, and gauges the amount of weight he should add. The witch doctors at S.H.I.E.L.D. informed him the day after he arrived that his human weight was 180 pounds. He settles upon this as a starting point, for if he cannot lift even himself, then he is surely doomed.

He adds the weights and settles upon the bench; his hands close around the bar and he breathes in, a sliver of anxiety beginning to swirl through his gut. Confirmation of how fall he has fallen lies before him, but better to know the exact depth. Perhaps then, at least, he can begin the slow, arduous climb from irrelevance. 

Drawing in another breath, Loki lifts the bar. He manages a few inches before his arms start to shake. The prospect of lifting the bar over the holder, lowering it, and then raising it again seems a Sisyphean task, and for the first time in his long existence, Loki feels sympathy for Sisyphus. 

Easing the bar back down, palms aching from clutching the roughened metal, Loki stands and removes thirty pounds. Then he tries again. The bar clears the holder this time, and he eases the weight to his chest. His legs curl up from the floor as he raises the bar again, but he persists, he will not yield. Sweat begins to dot his face as he lowers the bar once more, twice more, and then his arms start to shake again. He lays still, the bar, the weight, inches from his chest, and for a second, for one bright, blinding second, he fears he won’t be able to lift the weight a final time and he’ll have to call Jarvis to call the Captain. The shame associated with the image pushes him and Loki finally shoves the bar back into the holder.

He rests on the bench, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. One hundred and fifty pounds. He lifted tons before and now he can only lift pounds.

Tons to pounds. Millennia to decades. Realms to rooms. 

God to man.

Gritting his teeth, he sits and chooses his next machine. Loki bypasses the rest of the weights and focuses on the treadmill. As he crosses to the machine, he tries not to think how far he could travel in Asgard without tiring, how quickly he could sprint, speed the sole physical advantage he possessed over Thor. Now, he will settle for an hour. One hour of steady running, the pace respectable, enough to keep up with Barton, hopefully, or Natasha. 

Pressing the button, he begins to run, and Loki excels in this, as before, over strength. Fifteen minutes pass before he feels the exertion in his muscles and another ten tick by before his pace starts to slow. But the decline from here is swift and brutal. In five more minutes, sweat courses down his face and he sucks in air in sharp wheezes, yet he persists. Still he persists. At forty, pain stabs his side and Loki clutches the handles of the machine, but he continues, determined to reach an hour at the very least. 

At fifty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds, he slaps at the controls, bile rising in his throat, and he barely clears the apparatus before collapsing and throwing up for the second time in as many weeks in Stark Tower.

*

The next morning everything hurts. 

Loki reaches for the glass of water beside his bed and winces at the stab of pain in the muscles in his chest. His arm shakes as he raises the glass, and water spills onto the bed. Hobbling to the bathroom, his thighs stiff and his ass sore, he grimaces as he puts pressure on his feet. A spasm in his back stills him and Loki contemplates how exactly he can murder the Captain for his inane suggestion of exercise without getting caught.

*

The rest of the day proceeds much in the same manner.

Loki slips in the shower and throws an arm out to stop his fall, banging his left elbow against the wall.

A button falls off his favorite new shirt.

He drops his tablet as he walks to the kitchen for lunch, cracking the screen, and then he bites the inside of his cheek as he eats.

He accidentally deletes all the music he accumulated in his iTunes the past few days.

He misses a call from Natasha.

He shocks himself as he leans over to plug in his laptop for charging.

And then.

And then.

And then.

Thor returns.

The knock, as hesitant as before, infuriates him. His body protesting, Loki stalks to the door and yanks it open. Thor blinks, shocked at the quick greeting, but before he can speak, Loki says, “I have seen you in combat with a hundred Frost Giants. You wield a weapon that weighs as much as planets. Your strength is incalculable, yet you stand here timid before this door. I detest you.”

The hopeful light fades from Thor’s eyes and resignation pulls at his mouth. “I do not stand timid,” he says. 

Loki shakes his head. “Lying never suited you. Spare me your attempts now.”

“And understanding never suited you,” Thor retorts, his temper beginning to flare. “I know how you regard me. How can I not when you so boldly claim your hatred? Do you think a timid man returns time and again to endure such animosity?”

“Then I amend my previous statement. You do not stand timid. You stand dense and asinine.”

For a moment, rage overcomes Thor. His hands tighten into fists and he glares at Loki, his jaw clenched, and for a moment, Loki thinks Thor will strike him, but the rage blows through quick as a summer storm, leaving a sheen of sorrow in its wake. “Why do you say such things?” Thor asks quietly. “I mean only to aid you. You are my—”

At this, Loki slams the door closed, but this does not stop Thor now. He enters, determined but calm; Loki turns from him, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed. It’s all he can do in protest. Such a petty, pathetic response. But what more can he do? 

He’s only human.

“Loki.”

“Leave.”

“You know I will not.”

“Why?” Loki asks. He opens his eyes. Sunlight, burnt orange in the imminence of night, glints off the building opposite. He stares until spots mar his vision. “Because you’re my brother?” he asks, injecting the word with all the disdain he can muster. This, at least, remains to him. Words and his ability to wield them. 

A moment passes before Thor responds. “Yes.”

Loki remains silent.

In the silence, Thor once more appeals to him. “Regardless of what you may be, Jotunn or Aesir or man, you are my brother, and I shall wait for the day when you accept what you are so that you may focus again on who you are.” He pauses, but still Loki does not respond. He hears Thor exhale softly, and Loki knows that he shakes his head, that he shakes his head in sorrow for him. Poor, tragic Loki. So misguided. So in need of understanding. 

Of love.

Loki digs his hands into his arms, fingernails scraping the skin.

Thor continues. “You focus so intently on one’s blood or race, as if this determines their worth. But you have not arrived at this place you detest because you were Jotunn, and you do not suffer now because you are human. Your choices have determined your fate, and these, Loki, you can change.”

“I desire no change.”

Thor sighs at his response. “You do not lie as well as you once did, brother.”

“Then let me speak truth to you,” Loki says, uncrossing his arms and turning back around. “I do desire change. I desire separation from you. Are you not content with the adoration of Asgard as well as a vast swath of Midgard? Why must you demand such worship from me too?”

“I don’t—”

“You do. Time and again I reject your overtures, yet you refuse to accept my wishes. You return. You supplicate. You, the great and mighty Thor, fairly prostrate yourself before me in an attempt to regain my regard. Are you so greedy? So vain?”

“Loki—” 

But Loki does not stop. “You believe you aid me with your persistence, but I feel your presence as a burn upon my skin. If you truly held me in any esteem, you would respect my desires and you would leave. I am not of Asgard; neither am I of Jotunheim. I am, in the eternal wisdom of your father, of Midgard. Therefore, I am no longer your concern, so leave. Return to your world, Odinson, and leave me to mine.”

Thor stares at him, searching for truth. Loki holds his gaze. The silence succeeds where words could not. After a moment more, Thor turns to leave, issuing no further protest or comment. The door shuts softly behind him, a quiet recrimination against the truth, the truth a lie, the lie now truth, the god a monster, the monster a man, and how can a man be brother to a god?

When he hears the chime for the elevator, Loki turns. His eyes fix on his laptop, still on his desk, charging.

He watches and he waits and then he hurls the computer against the wall. 

*

By the time Loki enters the kitchen for dinner, he hates the world. Opening the refrigerator, he stares at the prepared meals, at the black plastic and the cellophane, and, unbidden, he recalls the last feast he ate in Asgard. The day before Thor’s aborted coronation, the day before the end. Frigga had made sure that the cooks made his favorite dish, a spicy soup served with thin slices of boar. Now, he must reheat meals wrapped in plastic and clean his own dishes in the sink.

Scowling, Loki pulls every meal from the fridge and, one by one, he cooks them all. Turning to the upper cabinet, he yanks down a bottle of vodka and cracks the seal, drinking as he eats a few bites from each meal. He uses new utensils for every dish, tossing them when he’s finished. The remains he leaves strewn across the kitchen, the dishes piled high in the sink.

Pausing a moment, he looks at the cabinets. A second passes and then he’s moving toward them, opening them, pulling out the uneaten food, smashing jars onto the floor, onto the walls, ripping open packages of bread and protein bars, crackers and chocolate, until only one item remains.

A ripe, glossy apple.

This he grabs, placing it in one pocket of his pants, and then he grasps the half-empty bottle of vodka and starts down the hall to Natasha’s rooms. 

Before the door, Loki wavers and then stops. He places the bottle on the floor and lays his hand on the knob, waiting for the screeching robotic sentries to swarm off the elevator to stop him. He waits for the arrow to pierce the back of his head to stop him. He waits for Thor or the Captain to arrive to stop him, but no one comes. He waits for Jarvis to speak, but he says nothing. The floor remains silent and still, Loki alone.

Breathing in, he tries the knob and it turns beneath his hand. He doubts that Stark denied Natasha locks. He also doubts she forgot to lock her door before she left. If Natasha were so careless, she would never have triumphed over him. She left her door open for him then, for who else would invade her space while she was away? But if she left her door open for him, she wants him to see whatever he finds inside, so there are no hidden secrets for him to discover, no clues to help him triumph in this game. 

There is no reason to enter.

Releasing his hold on the handle, he almost turns away, but then curiosity seizes him in a grip so intense that for a moment Loki can barely breathe. What does she want him to see of her? Why would she reveal anything to him at all, even a façade, even an image carefully constructed by her to torment him and to tease? Why is she doing this, this game, this contest of wills between them? Loki looks again at the door. Why the apple, why the clothes, why the kiss?

Is it to torment him or to help him? 

To torment him or to help?

Returning his hand to the door, Loki pushes it open, grabs the vodka, and eases inside.

The first thing he sees, illuminated by the light from the hall, is a hardwood floor, not the cool tile in his quarters. Loki waves his hand by the door, searching for a light switch, but he finds none. A moment passes and then he licks his lips and says, “Lights.”

Jarvis activates the lights. A long rectangular room appears, two walls of windows, one to his left and one far before him, overlooking the city. Loki closes the door and takes another drink of the vodka as he examines the room. Bookshelves line the wall he stands before. Nearby he finds a pair of chairs, dark wood with pale blue fabric, beside a matching round table upon which sits a small square container filled with small rocks and sand. Before the wall of windows to the left, every few feet, are plans in delicate pots; they stand on thin curved tables and contain miniature trees carved into intricate shapes. In the middle of the room, facing the plants and the windows, rests a long, low couch covered in cream fabric, square tables at either end and one as long and as low sitting before. Beyond, Loki sees a freestanding fireplace with two charcoal armchairs, a thick white blanket draped over the back of one. Paintings in ornate frames hang on the wall to his right, and one door, located in the middle of the wall, leads to the remainder of the rooms. 

Still beside the door, Loki drinks again from the bottle and surmises the scene. The space is as graceful and sophisticated as Natasha herself, but it is incomplete, capturing only a portion of the woman who has tested his will this past week. But then the space, too, is incomplete. The door to his right indicates more, at the very least a bedroom and a bathroom. At thought of her bedroom, his heartbeat quickens. Loki closes his eyes and intends to breathe in slowly, striving, as always now since his metamorphosis, for control, but he feels himself stumbling in the direction of the door. Loki opens his eyes, but he does not stop. The body demands. At least in the silence and solitude, he can acquiesce.

At the door, he does not hesitate, twisting the knob and pushing it open and entering the space and calling for lights and drinking, again, from the bottle. A bathroom appears around him, as long as the first room, but narrower. Opposite Loki stands another door, leading, presumably to the bedroom. Pushing forward, he crosses to this door and tries this knob, but it does not move and he grits his teeth, his other hand tightening on the bottle. 

A hint. A glimpse.

A tease.

Twisting back around, jaw clenched, Loki surveys his surroundings. At one end, an enormous shower that puts his own to shame, this one with sleek grey tile and frosted windows. Before him he finds two sets of counters, sinks, and mirrors, one on either side of the door leading back to the main room. At the other end of the bathroom lies a deep tub, half-burnt candles along the edges and a book propped on the rim. He takes another second to decide and then moves to the closest counter, placing the vodka bottle by the sink and removing the apple from his pocket. This he sets by the bottle as he reaches for the first drawer.

Inside Loki finds bottles and jars and small boxes. One bottle, made of ebony glass, catches his eye. Lifting it, he removes the cap and catches the scent of perfume, the same that Natasha wore when she escorted him to buy clothes. His body responds to the fragrance, and he clutches at the counter with his free hand. Looking at the apple, Loki remembers when she had made him clutch then in the kitchen, when she leaned in, when she eased back and tempted him although he had not known then that the offer was genuine. Now, he does. Now, he remembers the softness of her skin as he touched her face, the sharp bite of teeth on his bottom lip as she leaned in and kissed him. Loki remembers the glint in her eyes as she stared at him, as bright as the diamonds in her ears.

He opens the next drawer, finds a gun and a tube of lipstick, the hue of blood, inside.

Dropping the perfume, watching as it clatters on the counter, as it comes to a rest by the apple, Loki reaches down and palms his cock through his pants. The touch, the memory of hers, elicits a groan that reverberates through the bathroom, and, as Loki sinks down upon the floor, he conjures an image of Natasha and her wicked smirk, her ripe, lush, red, slick, glossy lips.

This is the last thing he remembers.

*

Consciousness returns, dim and ungainly.

Loki wakes, but he doesn’t open his eyes because, if he does, he feels like his head will explode and he’ll vomit his guts through the gaping hole in his neck. He lays still instead, his mouth dry and his lips stuck together. His body aches and he tries to breathe in, but his muscles protest even the soft rise and fall of his chest. He tries to lift his hand, but it tangles in something, something soft, sheets and blankets, his own, he thinks, but that’s impossible, Loki left his room, he went to the kitchen and then he went finally, finally, to—

“There’s water by the bed.”

The world shudders and stops at the sound of her voice, close at hand. If his eyes were open, Loki would close them in a vain attempt to deny this reality, he in _his_ room now and not hers, and _she_ in _his_ room now and not away, but they’re closed so he opens them instead, wincing at the shock of sunlight streaming in through his windows. 

Natasha sits in a chair by the bed. She wears a S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt and a bruise across her right cheek. A cut mars her forehead. Her gaze is cool and unwavering. Loki closes his eyes and rolls over, burying his face in the pillows.

“You need to drink some water,” she says. “You’re dehydrated.”

“Go away,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“I did and you ransacked the kitchen, came on my gun, threw up in one of my plants, and then passed out naked on my couch.”

Flashes from the previous night return. He ate all the food and then searched through her rooms. Loki remembers leaning down to inspect one of the tiny trees. He wonders if that’s the one he threw up in. A pang of guilt stabs at his gut followed quickly by irritation for the stab of guilt. He tilts his head so his mouth is free of the pillow and then he says, his eyes still closed, “You left the door unlocked.”

“So I did.”

Natasha says nothing more. Loki hears nothing save the slight wheeze as he tries to breathe. She does not move, she does not speak, she might not even breathe, but she watches him. He feels the gaze watching him, and the curiosity, the need to know, builds within him as bile, as desire. Loki resists, clenching his teeth, but the strain exhausts him, and after another moment, he gives in.

Opening his eyes, Loki inches around until he faces her. Natasha now holds the glass of water in her hand; she extends it toward him, and he looks at the glass and then at her. She raises a brow and he sighs, eases into something resembling a sitting position. Grabbing the glass, he drinks, the cool water alleviating some of the discomfort he feels. Natasha leans back in her chair. She makes no further comment about his activities the night before. Neither does he. They stare at each other instead. In the sharp light of the day, her injuries become more apparent, the slight list to the right as she sits, the bandage around her left pinkie. Loki wonders where she went and what she did to garner her injuries, but he knows she would never reveal official information to him so he doesn’t ask. Instead, he says, “Why did you send him? Why not the Captain?”

Natasha looks at him a long moment. He lacks the strength to shutter his gaze; he feels stripped bare and hollowed out, hating her and the world. A minute slides by and then she sighs, perhaps because of him, perhaps because of pain she feels at some unseen injury. “Thor’s not going to leave,” she begins, “and I’m not going to deal with him for you much longer. You need to find a way to do it that doesn’t end with you passed out and drooling on my couch.”

The image, the indignation and the humiliation that accompanies, sparks anger within him. Loki and his flawed and failed humanity. He shoves the glass back onto the table and sinks down onto the bed, drawing the sheets and blankets over his head. A moment of silence passes and then she says, “No wonder I beat you.”

Loki yanks the blankets down. “What?”

Natasha ignores the question. “Look at you,” she continues, and she does. Critically. “Pathetic.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. You’ve only been human for a week, and you’ve completely fallen apart.” 

She shakes her head, and the spark of anger ignites with him. He pushes himself into a sitting position and then says, leaning toward her, “I may have fallen, but you assisted in the descent.” 

Natasha shows no shame, only a cold smirk. “Of anyone, I thought the God of Lies could handle a little manipulation.”

“Manipulation, yes. Selflessness, no.”

This pauses her. Natasha peers at him, her eyes narrowed, trying to discern the meaning behind his words. Now Loki smirks, but the triumph is fleeting because the triumph is his failure. To clarify he must reveal his ignorance concerning her and her actions toward him. He resists for a moment until he realizes that resistance resulted in his present deteriorated state, so instead he licks his lips and asks, his voice harsh and stilted, “Why did you select those clothes for me?”

A brief hesitation, less than a second, before Natasha responds, but one that starts the agitation again within Loki. Crossing her arms over her chest, she says, “You needed clothes.”

The answer is no answer, it’s an evasion, and his agitation grows as the evasion indicates a desire to help, to ameliorate his suffering. “Answer me,” he says. “You could have purchased anything, something sufficient, but you chose clothes that would appeal, that would allow me to regain at least, in part, some of myself. Why did you do this?”

Natasha does not respond.

The silence, persistent, determined, releases the floodgates. The questions, the uncertainty of her and her motives burst forth from Loki, beyond his ability control. Tomorrow, he will curse this lapse, but today, he must yield. “Why did you select those clothes? Why did you reveal to me the conditions of your arrival at S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why did you kiss me? Why are you here? Did Fury send you, or did you volunteer for this? Why would you do that? Why?”

She sits still and silent as he fires question after question at her, but he sees something, some flicker in her eyes, a brief flare of an emotion that he cannot discern, but a reaction nonetheless, something beyond the impenetrable shell that she has presented to him since his arrival. A beat passes. Natasha glances at the glass on the table, then back at Loki and she says, “Nothing I do is selfless.”

“So what do you gain from this?”

Natasha arches a brow. “Obviously not clean quarters.”

The comment stings. “If you dislike how I respond to your actions,” he snaps, “transfer me. I’m certain that S.H.I.E.L.D. has plenty of impenetrable cells like the one on the Helicarrier in which I may live out the remainder of my mortal life.”

“Why do I need to do that?” she asks, leaning forward now, her gaze upon him intent. “This is prison for you, isn’t it? Mortality. You think this is your hell.”

He does not respond, not at first, but Natasha does not need for him to respond, to confirm her supposition, her question a mere formality, a revelation of her understanding of him. Instead he pounces upon her phrasing and says, “What would you call it if not hell?”

“An opportunity.”

Now Loki raises a brow. “For what?”

Natasha looks at him. Then one corner of her mouth curves into a grin. “I guess we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” she says as she stands, returning the chair to his desk. Loki watches as she moves to the door. There, she stops, and the curl of hair by her eye as she glances over her shoulder at him makes his heart quicken and lingers long in his mind after she has said goodbye.

*


	3. To Thine Own Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the heat of the shower, Loki contemplates his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mature ratings definitely kick in this chapter.

In the heat of the shower, Loki contemplates his life. Seven days ago, he resided in Asgard, a god still, though stripped of his magic by Odin. Since then, he’s been transformed into a completely different species and thrown halfway across the galaxy to the mercy of Natasha Romanov, where in the days that followed he lost control of his dick, smashed all of his electronics, destroyed a kitchen and a bathroom, thrown up three times, and allowed Natasha to see him unconscious and naked, sprawled across her couch like a recalcitrant child.

Weak.

Pathetic.

Human.

Or not human, for Natasha is human and Loki doubts she ever reacted to anything in her life by throwing jars of pomegranate juice against a wall. And the Captain, the image of him passed out anywhere, let alone the couch of the woman he’s trying to seduce into sexual submission, seems so foreign and unnatural that all Loki can do is shake his head.

So if not human, then what? Is this he, Loki, stripped of immortality and power, of nobility and magic? Is he no more than the soft underbelly of a beast divested of its shell? Loki ponders the thought until he recalls when Odin transformed Thor into a mortal; he, too, suffered, at least until Jane Foster found him and helped. 

Is this what Natasha has attempted to provide for him this past week? Has she attempted to help him? She evaded the question when he asked earlier that morning, only claiming that her actions weren’t selfless, but she could still help him and gain something from doing so. One does not necessarily preclude the other. The thought of a selfish motivation underlying the selfless gesture appeals to him. This Loki could allow, if Natasha gained as much as she gave because then the help would ultimately be for her, to allow her to acquire whatever it is she wants from him and the game she’s set in play. Then she would be using him for her own purposes and there would be no debt, nothing for him to owe, no inequality or inferiority, nothing for him to chafe beneath.

Just parameters for him to work within.

Loki shifts and turns, allowing the water to pound upon his back and soothe his aching muscles. But what does she desire? What does she hope to gain from this, this opportunity as she called it? Is she simply here for entertainment, to watch the former god suffer in his lowly state? As soon as Loki thinks it, he dismisses it. The disgust in her eyes as she stared at him before, as he pulled the blankets over his dehydrated, disheveled head, was real. But what was also real was the look in her eyes when he faced her before, when he threatened her, when he matched her. The wicked smile on her face when he quipped about disliking sharing. Her bold stare when he claimed that he was still Loki and that she was treading on dangerous ground with her actions. The gleam, the glint of challenge, in her eyes when he kissed her, when he took her by surprise and, for one moment, one glorious, blinding, moment, he seized control of the situation between them. How bright she burned then. 

At the thought, Loki opens his eyes. He stares at the steam collecting on the tiles. This is what she wants. The challenge of him now that the playing field has evened. 

She wants Loki.

A human Loki.

But can this be? Can he be human and still be Loki? How essential is magic to his identity? Or immortality? He came to terms with Asgard being stripped from his self, rejecting Odin as Odin had rejected him, rejecting Thor in the process, but this, humanity, mortality, Loki doesn’t know. 

Perhaps this is the opportunity to which Natasha alluded. Hadn’t this been his intention behind exercising: to test how much of himself remained in order know from where he would start the slow climb back? Perhaps, and he is loath to admit it and never will, not aloud and certainly not beyond this moment, perhaps Thor was right and Loki focused too much on the physical, on the warped and weakened state of his body. Perhaps he needed to focus more on the mental, on his intelligence and skill with words. For is this not Loki? Loki, the silver-tongued. Loki, the god of lies.

And what are lies but words?

*

Upon dressing, only a grey t-shirt and a pair of black linen pants, the thought of more, buttons and layers and jackets and scarves, too constricting for his still unfortunate state to endure, Loki shuffles from his rooms to the kitchen. He pauses before the threshold to prepare himself for the evidence of his maddened, drunken destruction. This he will repair, at least to prove he is not an imbecilic cretin or a lost, pampered prince incapable of self-sufficiency. But before he can, a sound in the kitchen captures his attention, a slow scrape followed by the tinkle of glass. Eyes darting to the door down the hall, closed now, but so is Loki’s, a closed door proves nothing of the occupancy inside, he allows one moment of dread, of utter humiliation at the thought of Natasha cleaning his mess, of pitying him so much as to be willing to do so, and then he enters. 

Instead of Natasha, though, Loki finds the Captain crouched on the floor, sweeping broken glass, bits of a bottle of soy sauce by the look of the shredded label, into a plastic bin. He looks up at Loki as he enters, the mild admonition in his eyes giving way to a humorless rebuke. Loki stands as straight as he can and returns the stare, though the lingering fumes from the spoiled food cause his stomach to start to churn. A moment passes in which they look at each other and then the Captain asks, “Have you ever cleaned before?”

Loki shakes his head.

Placing the broom against the wall, the Captain stands and, in a mortifying mimicry of his tour of the gym, identifies and explains the various items gathered to clean: sponges and paper towels, a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner, a broom and a mop and an enormous trash can in the center of the room. Loki grabs the bottle and a roll of paper towels and moves to one wall where he sees the residue of the pomegranate juice that he threw staining the surface.

They work for the next twenty minutes in silence. Loki cleans the walls, his muscles protesting each movement, his body somehow more sore the second day after his exercise than the first day. But he grits his teeth and continues, working until he removes every trace of the sticky juice. As he turns to throw the dirty towel into the trash, he spots the Captain staring at the sink, piled high with dishes, distaste clear on his face.

Loki moves to the counter and places the cleaner on the cluttered surface. “You needn’t stay,” he says. “I’m capable of finishing the remainder.”

“I know you are. But I want this finished before Natasha wakes up.”

“Why?” Loki asks. “She already knows what I did.”

The Captain turns to him now. “I know. I came to check on her and found her in here, cleaning up after you. But she’s had a hard couple of days and she needs to be resting, so I want this done.”

Loki wants to ask why, he wants to know what happened, but all he does is nod and turn away. He feels the Captain watch him as he dumps torn plastic and chunks of food into the trash. Half a minute passes and still the stare persists. His hand tightens on an empty box. “Something on your mind, Captain?”

“Yes.”

Loki waits, but the Captain does not elaborate, obviously wanting Loki to turn to him, to bestow upon him his full attention. Not bothering to hide his sigh, Loki turns. He crosses his arms over his chest and quirks a brow, waiting again for the Captain to continue.

After another few seconds, he does. “You exploit vulnerability. That’s what you do. You figure out someone’s weakness and you use it, you prey on it, in order to get what you want.”

“Your point?”

“Natasha might be hurt, but she’s by no means vulnerable. So don’t think that you’ve been given an opening to exploit.”

“I—Wait,” Loki says, a slight frown on his face. “Are you warning me not to hurt her or are you warning me that _she’ll_ hurt _me_ if I try anything?”

“The second. The first I assume you’ve already tried. That’s who you are, isn’t it?” He gestures to the mess in the kitchen. “You corrupt. You destroy.”

He did. He had. He championed entropy in realms dedicated to stability. He flourished in chaos, in the disintegration of command and decree. How far he has fallen if all he can engender now is a ruined kitchen, if the jumbled state of his body proves insurmountable, incomprehensible. 

Loki turns and shoves more trash into the can.

“Or am I wrong?” the Captain asks, relentless. “Natasha said—”

Loki turns again so swiftly that he knocks a cracked glass to the floor, breaking it further. “What did she say?” 

The Captain glances at the glass and then at Loki, raising a brow. 

Ignoring, for the moment, the potential consequences of his revelation, unintended, of his desire to know, Loki breathes in and then out, repeating on the exhale, the words shoved through gritted teeth, “What did she say?” 

“Why do you care?”

“Why did you desire to tell me?” Loki counters. 

“I didn’t,” the Captain says, turning away. “Which is why I stopped.” He begins to pull dishes from the sink, freeing space so that he can wash them. Loki looks at the counter and then back at the Captain, who ignores him. He could push, he could ask again, but for what? If the Captain wanted to continue, he would. To pursue the conversation further would result in nothing save attracting the Captain’s interest, and Loki has revealed too much of himself as it is.

Turning, he resumes cleaning. His mind, though, replays the prior few minutes. Why didn’t the Captain want to continue? What had Natasha said about him that he doesn’t want Loki to know? Something about who he is, Natasha’s view of him now. Or perhaps she had said nothing save to say that she had said something, another lie like the one she compelled Thor to relate. The only way to know for sure would be to question her himself or, if not that, to manipulate her somehow into revelation. 

Loki closes his eyes, overcome by a wave of nausea. Logic would dictate that he wait, the effects of the night before dulling his body and his mind. But if the Captain spoke the truth, if Natasha had been hurt during her mission, then logic also dictates that he go as soon as possible, the Captain accurate in his assessment of Loki and his methods, using vulnerability to triumph.

So to go or not to go?

To go or not to go?

That is the question.

*

This is the question.

To enter or not to enter?

To enter or not to enter?

An hour after the Captain departs, Loki stands before the door to Natasha’s quarters. Conceding to the mission, he changed his t-shirt for a dress shirt, pale blue, sans tie, this still too constricting for his unsettled form. He scuffs one shoe across the tile and watches as the light undulates over the polished leather, contemplating, again, the question. 

To enter or not to enter?

Loki looks at the door. Perhaps she removed the choice from him, locked her door to deny him entry. If she had, he’ll return to his room, he’ll wait for another time, the locked door a sign that she doesn’t want to speak to him. If so, no skill in manipulation could convince her otherwise.

But if, on the other hand, the door is still unlocked, if Natasha still allows entry, or at least the possibility of it, then he still has a chance.

He has an opportunity.

Loki smirks at that, Natasha’s final words that morning surfacing in his mind. In all likelihood, this is not the opportunity to which she alluded, but this is the beauty, and the pitfall, of ambiguity. 

Multiple interpretations. 

Laying his hand on the knob, Loki twists his wrist an inch, enough to test the give of the handle. It turns as smoothly as it did the night before. His heartbeat quickens, in anticipation, from nerves, this the true test of himself. Opening the door, he waits a moment, listening, but he hears nothing, not at first, and then he hears a curse, something in Russian. Loki waits, but nothing else comes, the curse, it seems, not directed at him, but at whatever Natasha does inside.

After another moment, Loki eases inside. Early evening light illuminates the room, as neat and polished as before his inebriated tour, save for the absence of one of the trees in front of the left wall of windows. The door leading to the bathroom stands open, warm light spilling onto the hardwood floor. He hears movement inside and he moves until the door no longer blocks his view inside.

Natasha stands facing away from one of the sinks, clad in grey shorts and a bra of soft black cotton, her head turned over her shoulder to gaze back into the mirror. For a second, he does not understand, but then he sees. Cuts and scrapes mar her back, her thighs, and the tops of her arms; most are shallow and too randomly placed for torture. Had she fallen? He takes a step closer. In her hands, he finds a ball of cotton and a black bottle; she tips the bottle onto the cotton, soaking it in some sort of liquid and then she dabs the now damp ball against one of the cuts on her lower back, eliciting a soft hiss from her clenched mouth at the contact.

“What happened?” he asks, stopping a foot or so away from the entrance. He’s close enough now to see that the door to her room stands open a few inches. Loki looks, he must look, but he sees only darkness, no illumination for the room and thus the woman who occupies that space.

Natasha gives no sign of surprise at his presence. She merely shrugs, dabs at another cut, and says, “Thrown across a gravel roof.”

Loki frowns. “Your uniform survived a Chitauri invasion, but it succumbed to gravel?”

“I wasn’t in my uniform.”

A second passes before he says, “What were you in?”

Natasha pauses in her tending. Her eyes cut to him, and he sees the beginnings of a smile play on her lips. “I was in a dress.” 

A dress. A devious, nefarious dress. The image rises in his mind, Natasha confronting a faceless opponent, clothed in the dress and heels that she wore to escort him shopping. “Why a dress?” he asks, trying to focus on the present and not the past, on the mission now and not before, but the interplay of violence and elegance, of the power and ability concealed beneath her soft exterior proves too irresistible to resist. 

She stares at him a moment. As with everyone, but especially with her, Loki strives to keep his face composed, shuttered and concealed. Perhaps he succeeds for, after that moment, she turns away. “The mission required it,” she says, tossing the cotton ball into a small black trashcan on the floor beside her.

He nods, and silence descends. Loki eases closer until he stands in the threshold to the room. A towel covers the edge of the tub; the ends of her hair curl with damp. Swallowing, he says, in a search for something to say, “Did you succeed in this mission?” 

“Yes.”

Loki waits, but Natasha says nothing more. Just the one word, a simple, assured, and confident yes, no accompanying quip, no boast of her prowess, only the concise declaration of capability, of certainty. To Loki, so unsettled now, so uncertain, incapable of mastering even the demands of his body, the word is an oasis, a shimmering pool in the desert, tantalizing the dying man.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in, seeking to steady his frayed nerves. He smells antiseptic and the same clean scent of soap that drove him to near insanity before. How? How? How? The question beats a steady tempo in his brain, timed to the beat of his heart. How can she overrule the chaos of her body? How does she triumph over herself? Over others? Over him?

“How?”

Silence greets his query. Loki glances at Natasha and finds her staring at him, her brows drawn together. He holds her gaze, trying not to hide, but trying not to reveal, simply presenting the question as just that: a question. A beat passes and then she says, “Why?”

Why indeed? Why not, he could say. Or he could tell the truth, how, since the moment his skin turned blue, since he learned the truth of himself, since his world was shaken by Odin’s lie, he’s searched for a sure hold, grasped at anything in his path: the golden spear of Gungnir, the murky power of the Tesseract, promises of worlds made his, but none secure, none belonging to him. Or he could do as he does, summoning a smirk as he leans against the doorframe, as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Curiosity.”

The word, or the lie, provokes a response, the same ripple of emotion passing across her face as before in his room. Natasha turns and caps the bottle she still holds. She places it in the cabinet beneath the sink and then gathers the bag of cotton balls and stores them as well. Loki takes a step into the room and then another, stopping as she catches his eye in the mirror. She stares at him, he waits, and then she breathes in, a decision made, perhaps a line crossed. “Information. I know my adversary, know how they see me, and I use it to my advantage.”

Breath catches in his chest at the opening she presents him. “And how do I see you?”

In the mirror, she looks at him and raises a brow. “Before or now?”

“Both.”

“Well, you know before,” she says, reaching for a small yellow and white tube. “You told me. Remember?”

Loki does, his face pressed against the glass of the cage, his eyes intent upon her, eager to watch as she broke under his attack, as she proved him correct. The mewling quim.

“Here,” she says, drawing his attention back to the present. She holds the tube over her shoulder, out to him, the cap now removed. At his frown, she says, “Antiseptic cream. Since you’re here. Put some on your fingertips, smooth it over the cuts. It helps prevent infection.”

Loki glances at the tube and then at Natasha, and the room seems to shrink around them. Licking his lips, he closes the distance between them, the space so small that he only needs a stride or two. She watches him approach, reflecting in the mirror the same certainty, the same confidence and capability captured before in yes. 

Swallowing, Loki reaches for the tube. His fingers close on the end and she releases it, dropping her arm down to her side. He tries to focus on breathing, on the clear cream now on the tip of the first finger of his right hand, and not on the swell of breasts that he sees over her shoulder or the sight of her feet, pale and bare, on the cool tile floor. Loki scans her back, spots old scars beneath new scrapes, and selects a series of deeper cuts across her left shoulder blade. His finger hovers above her skin, and he closes his eyes, this moment too much, the intimacy of this space, this request, this demand, overcoming him. Then he breathes in again, sets his shoulders, and says as he opens his eyes, “And now?” 

“Now,” she says, her voice low and quiet in the hush of the room. “Jailor. Tormentor.” Natasha pauses and so does he, meeting her gaze once more in the mirror. “Mystery.”

At that, Loki nods; the truth, her understanding of him, deserves acknowledgment. His mouth is dry, the importance of this moment vying for his attention with the coolness of her gaze and the warmth of her skin. With a final touch, he finishes his application of the cream and then he says, his voice as low and quiet as hers, “And how do you see me?”

The slight curve of her lips signals her pleasure or her amusement at the question. “Before,” she asks, “or now?”

A needless question, for what concern has he for before, a state to which he will never return?

“Now.”

She nods, then slips into silence as she contemplates him. Loki dots more cream on his finger as he waits; he searches her skin and selects a wound, one in the middle of her back, parallel to her spine. Placing the tube on the counter, he pulls his left hand back, slowly, pausing when his palm hovers over the curve of her waist. He finds Natasha in the mirror, finds anticipation in her eyes as she waits to see what he will do. A beat passes and then he lays his hand on her waist. As she, he watches, gauging her reaction. He sees nothing, but he feels a slight hitch of breath, a brief contraction and a slow release of muscles in her abdomen. 

Loki tries not to feel a sense of triumph, but he fails. 

“Have you decided?” he asks, smoothing the cream across the scrape.

“I decided a week ago,” she says. “I just wanted to see how long you’d wait to ask.”

At this, Loki narrows his eyes, and she chuckles. In response, he pokes one of her cuts; Natasha narrows her eyes at him, and he chuckles. Then he stops as she lifts the antiseptic, as the intent behind her gesture slides into place.

His left hand still on her waist, Loki wraps his right around her, stepping in, only an inch or two now between them. Heat slithers through his gut as she grabs his wrist. Thought gives way to sensation, to touch, to the pressure of her thumb on the heel of his hand, her left leg pressed against his. Loki closes his eyes, his head beginning to spin, his breath coming too fast, control slipping from his grasp. “And now?” he asks, gritting his teeth against the scent of her shampoo.

“And now,” she says, and she places a dot of cream on his finger. “Curiosity.” 

His eyes fly open, his left hand tightening on her waist, but Loki sees no mischief in her eyes, no intent to twist his lie and toss it in his face. She speaks the truth: he intrigues her, the god made human, tormented by his mortal form. This he may be able to use. “Then we have something in common,” he murmurs, easing back enough to locate another scrape, this one an inch above the waistband of her shorts.

“So you said.”

“So I said.” He pauses now and allows a faint smirk to appear. Curiosity and mystery. No more waiting. Now is the time. “For instance…” he begins, settling his right hand low on her hip.

Natasha quirks a brow at the placement of his hand, at the hint of a revelation. “For instance?” she asks. 

“For instance,” he repeats, watching her as she so often has watched him. “I am curious about something. Perhaps you would indulge me,” he pauses again, his left hand beginning to move, to journey now from the valley of her waist to the plains of her abdomen. “Satisfy my curiosity, so to speak.”

Natasha places her hands on the counter. “So to speak.”

Loki smiles at that. “If there is anything I know,” he says, palm flat on her belly, “it is the perks, the privilege of wealth.”

Her eyes narrow, her curiosity piqued. “And?”

“And Stark lives in wealth, enough to where if the perverse prisoner in his lodgings happens to demolish a kitchen, a plethora of servants or robots could be summoned at a moment’s notice to clean the mess.”

Natasha looks at him, the hint of a smile playing upon her lips. “Your point?”

“My point,” he says, guiding his right hand down until he finds bare skin, the soft span of her thigh and the firm muscle beneath, “is that, when faced with such a reality, rather than summoning those robots and those servants, you chose to clean the mess yourself.”

“I did,” she says.

“You did.”

A faint flush stains her cheeks now. “Why did I do that?”

That is the question. Why? Why did she clean the kitchen? Why did she kiss him? Why did she buy those clothes for him? Was it to torment him or to help? To torment him or to help?

Loki slips the thumb of his right hand beneath the hem of her shorts and caresses the hidden expanse of leg there. He watches as Natasha breathes in, as the breath catches in her chest at the movement of his hand. “Upon first reflection,” he begins, “privacy presents itself as the correct response. This is your floor and you guard your privacy here with the intensity of one who lived without it for a significant portion of her life.”

“But?”

“But,” he says as he teases the thin stretch of cotton beneath her breasts. “The kitchen is hardly private space. Not your quarters, for instance.”

“So why did I refuse?” she asks.

He pauses a moment for effect. “You refused,” he says, “because you didn’t want others to see the mess.”

At that, her smile widens. “Why wouldn’t I want that?”

Loki leans closer, eliminates the space between them and presses his cock against her, hard since the first touch of his hands on her body. Her eyelids flutter at the contact, and the impression of conquest that rushes through Loki at the sight is hard and bright. “Because it would reflect badly on you,” he explains. “Or on me. Or the both of us.”

“How so?”

Beneath her shorts, Loki feels for and finds the edge of her underwear. “The reflection upon you would be that you are incapable of handling me.” His fingertips dart under the elastic, stroke the depression that it made upon her skin. “The fact that you were absent during my actions would mean little,” he continues. “After all, you did call.”

Natasha clutches the counter. “And you?” she asks, the two words light and arched with desire.

His left hand snakes up between her breasts; his eyes fix upon her face. “And me, it would indicate that I am incapable of handling this punishment. Mortality. That I am unstable. Possibly dangerous.”

Her back arches; her breasts swell at the top of her bra, lush beneath his arm and hand. “Why wouldn’t I want the others to know that?”

“Perhaps again,” he says, releasing her underwear, grinning as it snaps, as it cracks against her skin, “it would reflect badly on you. You, who are assigned to help me adjust to this mortal life.”

“Or?”

Loki grips her hip. Natasha watches him, her gaze expectant, the challenge clear. Will he? Will he? Breathing in, he thrusts. The gasp catches in his throat at the sensation, at the immediate and insistent demand by his body for more. “Or,” he says, the syllable stretched taut, “it would reflect badly against me. I would be removed from the tower, or at least from this floor, and this would deny you your current diversion. This game with me.”

Natasha bites her bottom lip. She rocks back against him. “Or?” she breathes.

“Or,” he says, and he feels his heart pound, he feels his breath come in short, shallow gasps, he feels his control ebb in the moment that he needs it the most. Tightening his hold on her hip, yet unable to stop himself from thrusting again, Loki whispers the revelation in her ear, the truth that has tormented him the past few days, “You hid the truth in order to help me.”

Natasha eases her head back. She peers at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Now why would I do that?” she asks.

“Why would you?” he responds, rubbing two fingertips against the thin curve of cotton covering her, as he so boldly said before, her quim, the fabric wet to his touch. “Given my conduct the last time I was on Midgard, helping me would understandably be the furthest thing from your mind.”

She nods, her grip on the counter turning her knuckles white.

Loki thrusts again, pushing her into his hand. He feels his body flush, feels heat spread thick and slow through his veins. His left hand hovers at the base of her throat. “Except…”

Natasha looks at him, expectant, her lips slick and parted in a silent moan.

“Except Sao Paolo,” he says. “Except Barton.” Loki tilts his head down; he stares at her, his eyes wide, his pupils blown and fixed upon her. “He made a different call for you. Is that what this is for you, a chance to make a different call for me, to save me as he saved you?” His left hand tenses at her throat; on his right, his fingers slip again beneath the edge of her underwear, they hover above her, nothing between them now but anticipation. “Do you truly believe me capable of remorse, Agent Romanov? Of atonement?” He places his mouth against her ear and his claim escapes in a low, coarse hiss. “Mortality is not humanity.”

Time hangs suspended between them, the hush of the room, the blood rushing through his body, all, the feel of her beneath his left hand, how his right twists and hovers in suspense, all, all, his mouth parted in a grin, the tip of his tongue pressed against his teeth, all shiver and thrum, and then Natasha sighs, so softly that Loki almost doesn’t hear, but when he does, time jerks and shudders forward, and he realizes that, despite the disparity in clothing between them, Loki fully dressed, Natasha nearly nude, despite the claims he made upon her body with his hands, it is she who has maintained control the entire time, Natasha manipulating him, leading him to this moment, this moment that now, now he realizes he has failed. 

She turns, the movement forcing his right hand out from her underwear, her shorts, dropping his left hand that held her throat. “You never lacked humanity, Loki.” She pauses and looks at him, something, something in her eyes, something cooler than desire, something that pierces him and penetrates. “You only pretended otherwise. To be separate. To have your own—” 

He lurches forward and kisses her. Natasha crashes back into the counter; her legs bang against the drawer. Loki trembles or he shivers; he reaches for her face, an anchor to hold, to seize, when her hand grasps his. He tenses, preparing for her to toss his hand aside, to squeeze and crush his fingers, but instead she hisses and gives a slight gasp of pain, and he stills.

He pauses.

For a moment, less than the length of a breath, Loki pauses because, in that moment, in that draw of breath, he feels concern. 

For her.

Loki jerks back and looks at Natasha. He sees confirmation in her eyes, not proud or pompous, just sure, certain in their knowledge of him. Anger rushes upon him, it wars with desire and the cold trickle of confusion dripping down his spine. He stiffens and so does Natasha as his hand clenches into a fist beneath her fingers.

“Try it,” she says, “and I put you down.”

The world wavers before him, Natasha shimmers, and he becomes aware of the hot prick of tears in his eyes. “Will you?” 

She nods.

“But I outweigh you by fifty pounds. At least. I trained for a millennia in combat. Where is my disadvantage?”

She looks at him, and the something in her eyes, the cool flash of emotion that pierced him just a moment before, clarifies. She feels pity. Pity for him. “You already know,” she says. “Phil told me that he told you.”

The memory slaps him, shoves him down. 

Conviction.

He lacks conviction, his conviction marred by the most poisonous and permanent of stains.

Doubt.

Does he want to slay her or seduce her? 

Does she want to torment or to help him?

Is he still Loki, though he feels a pale, weak, wild, mad, muddled, mortal version of himself?

Loki hesitates as he did before, at the door to his room, the soft touch of her hand during their aborted computer lesson sending his mind and body into a frenzy. And again, in his hesitation, she eases away. But this time, she makes no quip about avoiding porn. She merely looks at him as she moves toward her bedroom door, and in her eyes, he sees desire. In her eyes, he sees understanding. He sees pity and concern and the hard edge of strength. Loki watches her go, frozen but for the faint flutter of his heartbeat in his throat. 

When the door shuts behind her, he turns. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes wide, damned and lost. Dropping his gaze, he spots the drawer that contained her gun and lipstick before, and before the thought coalesces, he reaches for the handle and yanks the drawer open, but instead of finding the burnished metal of a gun or the bloodied hue of a cosmetic, he finds the gleaming case of a new computer and the slick, glossy skin of an apple.

Both of these Loki smashes against the floor.

*


	4. The Conquest of Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leaves her bathroom and then her parlor and then walks down the hall, his pace quickening the more the distance grows between them, between him and his failure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from the Woodkid song of the same name.

He leaves her bathroom and then her parlor and then walks down the hall, his pace quickening the more the distance grows between them, between him and his failure. The kitchen passes by in a gleaming blur. Reaching the door to his rooms, Loki shoves it open; the door bangs against the wall and rebounds, nearly hitting him as he walks in, so he shoves it again and it collides with the wall, the knob piercing the plaster.

In his parlor, he stands, his heart pounding, his dick aching, still partially erect from before. He feels breathless and dizzy, but he walks around the room, the room too small, the realm too small, his body too small, but nowhere, nowhere, nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do, exercise a failure, destruction a failure, manipulation a failure, Loki a failure, always, always so.

He sits on the desk, but then he remembers when her hand touched his, the gesture soft but not hesitant, and he tries to escape, again, stumbling now to his bedroom, crashing through the door, but here he sees the clothes that she bought and here he sees the phone that she provided, so he moves again, staggering to the bathroom, to the shower, to his refuge, but here he thinks of the other bathroom, _her_ bathroom, and of what occurred there, how her back arched and her breath caught and her hands clutched the counter by the sink and the final look in her eyes as she eased away, leaving him, leaving him lost.

Collapsing onto the floor, Loki contemplates those final few minutes. He can’t not, the thoughts racing through his brain without regard to his will or desire. Why did she sigh? Why would she protest his claim about his lack of humanity and his lack of remorse? Does Natasha want him to atone? Does she want to him to feel guilt for what he’s done? Why? Why? Why would she want this?

Loki breathes in and tries to think. He must think. If he can’t do this, then what exists for him? But he can’t. He can’t breathe. He tries again, he feels the muscles of his chest move, but no air reaches his lungs. He lifts a hand to his chest and realizes that his fingertips tingle. Blinking once, Loki opens his mouth, but whether it’s to scream or cry or stare open-mouthed he doesn’t know, and then he hears a bell ring in his bedroom and he thinks that he’s slowly going insane.

Loki tries to breathe, and the bell rings.

Loki tries again, and the bell continues.

Loki tries once more, and the bell persists, a soft rhythmic chime, and then he realizes that it’s not a bell.

It’s his phone.

But who would call him? Only the Avengers know that he resides on Earth now and that he has a phone, and, of them, only Natasha or Thor would call. Perhaps the Captain if he had to. Would Fury call? Maybe there’s been some issue with the agreement made between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Asgard? Maybe they’ve decided to transfer him to an actual cell or to transform him again, into an ant this time, or a toad, or a—

“Loki.”

Jarvis.

“Ms. Romanov calling for you. Should I patch her through?”

Loki swallows and tries to say no, but all that escapes his throat is a thin wheeze, his throat thick and clogged with something, maybe air, maybe dignity, maybe his sanity. A second later, a slight buzz fills the air and then she speaks.

“Loki.”

Loki closes his eyes.

“Loki, Jarvis says you’re having a panic attack.”

He clenches his tingling hands.

“They last twenty minutes, maybe thirty, so this will pass.”

Loki slides onto the floor and curls into a ball. He hears her murmur, but he can’t tell what, and then he hears the clipped tones of Jarvis, likely reporting his disintegration, his mind, his body shaking, shivering apart.

When she speaks again, her voice is low, humming along the wires and the air connecting them, thrumming down into his bones. “When I was young,” she says, “I would dream of green plains. The grass would lick my ankles as I walked, no destination in sight, just fields as far as I could see. Clouds passed slowly in the sky. And the sun, I felt it on my arms, my face. Sometimes I would wish for a tree to sit against so I could watch the light shine through the leaves. And the light—” she says before pausing now and drawing in breath, and Loki tries too, he tries to, but his lungs freeze halfway “—the light danced on the leaves, on my hand when I held it out, and when I breathed in—” and here she breathes again and Loki tries as well, but the air still sticks in his throat and all he can do is gasp “—when I breathed in, I thought that I smelled the light, too. Isn’t that strange? Dreaming about smelling light?”

Loki swallows and tenses and croaks out, “Yes.”

At that, Natasha laughs. Or maybe Loki imagines it. Maybe he’s imagined this whole exchange. He bites his lip to keep from asking if she’s real, if he’s real, if this whole entire week has been real or if he’s still locked in his cell on Asgard, his mind ripped asunder by the loss of magic or the length of the incarceration or Odin, unleashing his cruelty upon Loki once more.

“I didn’t know what I was doing then,” she says, “but I was trying to help myself relax and not panic. Where I grew up, it wasn’t… It wasn’t pleasant. So at night when I wouldn’t have nightmares, I’d dream about the plains. Later, I learned meditation. Then yoga.”

“What… What is…?”

“Yoga? It’s sort of… spiritual exercise. Not the kind that Steve said you tried. Yoga focuses on breathing, on flexibility, on finding balance in your mind and body.” She pauses again, a real one this time, not one designed for him to mimic; Loki listens to her breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out, and he tries to do the same, again, again, and again. Finally, a sliver of air slides into his body, it licks along his lungs, hot and wet but there, and he listens to her say, “You asked me before if things ever affected me. They do, but this, yoga, it helps. If you want—”

Natasha stops. Loki places his right hand on the floor, the tile cool beneath his palm. The world begins to actualize around him, the unreality fading. He focuses on the tile, on his hand, on the buzz of silence on the line between them, waiting, waiting for her to speak. 

Thirty seconds pass before she does. “If you want,” she says and the words sound odd to his ears, though he doesn’t know why, “I could show you.”

What is it? 

What is it? 

Is it confusion or suspicion? 

“Loki?”

Caution or fear?

“Loki—”

“Why?” he asks. His voice sounds odd to his ears, flimsy and diluted, but he knows why this is so. For her, though? Is she anxious or agitated? Nervous or rattled?

“Why?” he asks again when she doesn’t respond.

Natasha sighs, partly exasperated and partly something else, the indefinable shade that torments him now. He waits for her to respond, and the silence breathes as he breathes. Loki imagines her licking her lips and staring at a space on the wall in her bedroom, trying to penetrate through the layers to see him here, to watch, to observe, to understand and to know. What does she make of him now, lying here, trembling, having fallen so fast and so hard so quickly? Does she pity him? Or does he disgust her as he did that morning, lying in bed, sick and trembling, having falling then so fast and so hard so quickly? Loki raises a hand to his face and swipes a palm across his brow, dotted now with sweat. When he lowers it, finally, finally she speaks.

Finally she answers. 

“Because I’m trying to help you.”

Loki opens his eyes, but Natasha speaks again before he can think, before he can process her revelation. “I’ll be in the gym that Steve showed you tomorrow, 9:00, if you want to come. If not, let Jarvis know. He’ll tell me.”

She pauses then, or maybe she hesitates, but hesitation implies uncertainty. It implies doubt. Is this the shade that he heard before? Has he undermined her certainty somehow? But from what? From what? From what occurred in her bathroom then or what occurs now in his?

Before he can decide, Natasha ends the call and Loki lays in the silence, her final words replaying in his mind.

*

The next morning he sits at his desk staring at Manhattan; the city gleams in a light sheen of rain. He still wears the clothes he slept in, and, although he slept nearly ten hours, he awoke feeling exhausted, the past few days and their varied torments weighing upon him as gravity. Physically, at least. Mentally, his mind still buzzes, her hesitation the night before circling again and again, around and around his brain, demanding, yet eluding, clarity.

His eyes turn to the clock hanging on the wall that leads to his bedroom. Twenty minutes. He has twenty minutes to decide whether he dresses and leaves and goes down to the gym to learn yoga from Natasha or if he alerts Jarvis to notify her of his absence instead.

One minute ticks by. Then two. The sight of Natasha in the mirror the night before slinks into his mind, her gaze potent as she prompted his assumptions with tense, terse questions. Such a stark contrast to the soothing hum he heard over the phone, in tone, in phrasing, and, especially, in the intent behind the conversation. 

The odd tinge to her voice when she proposed teaching him yoga returns again to his mind, this the sign of her uncertainty. Because this, now, he no longer doubts. Natasha hesitated. With this, yoga, she hesitated, yet with one hand on her throat and one in her pants, she stood assured, satisfied even, at least until his failure to grasp her.

So why hesitate? Why feel uncertainty now?

Loki glances at the clock. Fifteen minutes remain. He shifts in the chair, and then, as for all understanding, he knows. The sluggish workings of his brain finally creak into gear, and one piece of the Natasha puzzle slides into place.

She hesitates because this is real.

Everything until then, aside from the one brief moment before the elevator in which she allowed him a glimpse of her past, had been a carefully constructed façade, as smooth and polished as the parlor in her quarters. But this is real. This is Natasha. The story about the plains, the hint at the unpleasantness of her past, the use of yoga and meditation to allow her to conquer the chaos of her body and life, these are real.

So why is she sharing them with him?

To help him, he knows. But why does she want to help him like this? In her assistance, the focus could easily remain on Loki and his woes, yet Natasha chooses to reveal herself and to do so to the man who attempted to conquer her world, who seized the mind of her partner and tried to kill a fellow agent, who tormented her with those painful parts of her past that require the practice of meditation and yoga to contain. 

So why? Why make this personal for her? Why allow him in?

Loki turns to his bedroom door. Does the reason relate to the opportunity to which she alluded the day before? He assumed the opportunity pertained only to him, but perhaps he presents one to her as well. After all, she did claim that nothing she did was selfless. But what does she gain from this? Is this simply an opportunity for physical satisfaction, or does Natasha anticipate more from her interaction with him? Loki possesses no false modesty concerning his appearance; even as a mortal he knows appeals aesthetically. And his hands upon her body the night before excited her. He felt it in the hitch of her breath. He saw it in the faint flush to her cheeks.

But not solely his hands. The conversation, his process of thought as he deconstructed her, as he tried to understand her, attracted her too. Possibly even more than his hands as it was only when he _said_ the wrong thing that she stopped their encounter. Not when he _did_ the wrong thing.

So _he_ intrigues her. 

Loki.

But the physical matters. Before, prior to his transformation, Natasha would never have pursued her interest in him, their physical disparity, even for one whose strength is mental prowess, too much for her to bear. 

But now she can.

And so can he, mortality consigning him to this life, to this realm, to this city, to this building.

To her.

Loki stands and begins to pace. Is this the opportunity? His mortality provides them the chance to, what, be together? Upon initial reflection, the idea seems too simple, too sentimental for her, but that presupposes that it is sentiment that prods her to pursue him. Natasha made clear before at the cage that love and the like held no interest for her, no influence upon her and her actions. But if not love and if not simple physical satisfaction, there must be something about him that appeals to her, something that prods her to help him and to reach out to him, despite his past. 

Or maybe because of it. 

Loki purses his lips as he contemplates. The red in her ledger may or may not compare to his, but the stain is present all the same, and when he claimed that she walked on dangerous ground with him, that he was still Loki in spite of his mortality, he didn’t frighten her. 

He excited her. 

However, Natasha also proclaimed his humanity in the face of his denial, proving with her gasp of pain that he felt, if not remorse, then _something_. So is this it? Is this what appeals to her? The hand on her throat and, crudely, the one in her pants, the tension between the danger and the emotion within him? Is the personal revelation a part of this, both a danger and a pleasure to her, one she cannot acquire from anyone else?

Loki stops and looks at the clock. Four minutes until the hour. He feels breathless, but not from sickness or desire, not as before. This breathlessness derives from understanding, from the use of his intellect and the clarification of mystery. But he resists conclusion, needing more to prove his theory. The question becomes how, meditation the proposed activity, neither dangerous nor one likely to induce emotion within him. So what? So what?

He thinks, and then, as before, Loki knows. Standing in the middle of his parlor, he knows. A slow smile spreads across his face as he moves to his bedroom to change, to descend, to watch and to observe and to learn and to understand.

*

At the door to the gym Loki stands and observes Natasha. She sits with her legs crossed on the mats covering the left side of the room, her back to the door. He suspects her eyes are closed as well. Practicing the meditation she preached. He wonders if this is in specific preparation for him or part of her daily routine. He wishes he had more time to prepare, more time to rouse himself from his physical exhaustion, but once more unto the breach and all that.

Easing into the room, he recalls the cage and how he paced then, waiting for his plan to unfurl, for the spear to take hold of the team and rip them apart. And then she came. Natasha came and unsettled his world, outwitted him both then and later, using the spear to close the portal and end the charade of his schemes. And now Loki tries to do the same, no schemes to end, but motives to uncover and theories to test and one woman, one human woman but seemingly more than that, for him to unfurl.

He closes his eyes and inhales, his body hot and muddled. Focusing on this, on the progress of air into and out of his lungs, Loki feels his heartbeat slow. His thoughts race, but he allows them to race, to chart possibilities and maneuvers and counter-maneuvers. Then, he opens his eyes and he takes a step that he knows she will hear and he begins, again, their game.

“You took the stairs,” she says, turning her head to watch him as he circles around the room.

“Only for the final floor,” he admits, his eyes on her.

Natasha nods and stands. He sees faint circles of exhaustion ringing her eyes. She still sports the bandage around her right pinkie, but the bruise on her cheek and the cut on her forehead look fainter though only a day has passed. Loki narrows his eyes, but he says nothing, the move now hers. Natasha looks at him and her lips twitch in a nascent smile. “It’s difficult to sneak up on someone who knows you’re coming.”

“So you had no doubt?” he asks, facing her, one brow raised in inquiry.

Her smile widens, a confirmation of his deduction. “Not about you coming.” 

“Yet you proceeded.”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other. This, this is his opening. Breathing in, he steps away from the wall and says, “Then I propose an alternate use of this space.”

Natasha raises a brow, the smile still on her face. “Do you now?”

Loki nods.

“What do you propose?”

Loki glances at the weapons cabinet and then at Natasha. “The last time I was in this room was to test my physicality, to understand how much of me remained. However, such an independent assessment clarifies nothing because the true assessment of an individual is not whether one can triumph over himself, but whether one can triumph over another.”

Natasha regards him, her expression now unreadable.

“So, since you said last night that you are trying to help me, would you care to help with this?”

She does not immediately respond. He knows some emotion restrains her, though whether that is disappointment, resignation, or determination he doesn’t know. Loki swallows and licks his lips, trying to convey restrained restlessness, a hint of fret and worry about his physical incapacity in the midst of his panic attack. She inhales as though to sigh, or to speak, but instead of speaking, she nods once and strides toward the weapons cabinet. There, she places her thumb on a small square screen; a light at the bottom flashes yellow, and Loki hears the click of a lock. Natasha eases back, pulls the door wide, and allows Loki to see the contents within the depths. There are guns and a bow, daggers and one sword, a few items that Loki cannot identify, likely creations by Stark or S.H.I.E.L.D. or both, and then in the corner, concealed in part by shadow, two slim gorgeous staves.

Glancing at Natasha, Loki asks, “Have you fought with a quarterstaff before?”

She nods, then quirks a brow. “I assume you’re more than proficient.” 

“Before, yes. Now…” He stops and flashes a tight smile at her, conveying lingering frustration with his mortal form.

Natasha grabs the staves and pushes the cabinet doors closed; the light at the bottom flashes red, and she turns and walks toward him. He accepts the proffered staff, his right hand encircling the smooth wood an inch above hers. For a moment, they remain, watching each other. Studying. He wonders if she’ll back away or turn. Would turning be a sign of trust or simply a ploy to lure him in? Loki remembers his lunge for the gun the night before. He wanted to shoot her, perhaps to kill her. In that moment, the desire burned within him, it burned away logic, leaving behind only the need to hurt, to inflict his pain upon another. And Natasha knew. She had removed the gun. He may intrigue her, but by no means does she trust him. Yet she turns now and walks away, leaving herself vulnerable, inviting him to attack, to try to prove his superiority to her, one he is sure she could counter with ease.

As they face each other, adrenaline starts to buzz through him, charging his weary bones. Loki places his left hand at the end of the staff, his right a quarter of the way up. He waits for Natasha to follow suit, the weapon pulling heavy on his mind, drawing forth memories of training, of battles long past. His skill with staves and spears impressed even Odin, so resistant to bestowing any sort of praise upon him. But he knows from just the weight of the staff in his hands that this body will be unable to replicate his feats of old. Yet the power, the remembrance of ability, stirs him and intoxicates, and he exults in the sensation.

Natasha touches the end of her staff to his. Loki knows that she won’t begin, wanting to assess his attack before launching her own, and, in this, he obliges, thrusting his staff forward toward her face. The movement is effective, but lacking the grace of a god. Natasha steps to her right and blocks the blow, pushing his staff to the ground, and then she lifts hers for a strike, the movement adequate, slower than he would have anticipated for her, but true. 

Dropping to a crouch, Loki evades her thrust, wobbling once as he sweeps his staff in a high arc and brings hers crashing to the ground beside his feet. He knows she’ll retreat, he knows she’ll circle toward him to strike at his back, centuries of experience at his grasp, so he turns to his left and plants his staff vertical. After a moment, her blow rebounds, and still in a crouch, Loki swings his staff behind his back, passing the weapon from his right hand to his left, and then he swipes at her legs, hoping to knock her off her feet, but Natasha jumps, clearing the sweep but only just. Loki considers reversing the swing, he knows she won’t have time to clear the pole again, but he grabs the staff with his right hand instead and stands, deciding to begin again.

Loki waits for Natasha to regroup, his heart beating fast, his breath coming fast. Sweat covers his forehead. He knows he’ll feel this fight in his muscles tomorrow, the staff heavy in his hands, but power blazes bright within him, blinding, whiting out all other concerns until all that remains is the need to push her flat on her back and pin her to the ground. His plan to watch and learn how she reacts, to detect how she responds, to talk to her and coax revelations from her reticent lips, fades before this. The physical, as always since his arrival, since always he knows, prevails.

Again, Natasha touches the end of her staff to his and again they begin, Natasha attacking first this time. She strikes at his face, but as he moves to block, she pulls her staff back and thrusts again, her movements faster, smoother than before. Loki barely jerks his staff over to block this blow before Natasha spins down to her knees and sweeps her pole out toward his feet. He drops to a crouch, bringing the butt end of his staff down to the mat to block, but then all he sees is her foot coming toward his face and he flattens, breathless, ducking the kick. 

For a moment, Loki lies still, panting, frozen. Then he turns to her. Natasha looks at him, her eyes wide with what he interprets as shock. A beat passes and then she says, “Clint… I train with him… Instinct—”

“It’s fine,” he says, pushing to his feet. There, he considers a moment and then holds out a hand. Natasha raises a brow at the gesture; her gaze flits to his face before settling on his hand, but she accepts the offer and Loki helps her to stand. As he does, he steps in close, erasing the space between them. Her eyes narrow and he summons a grin from old, the grin of a prince, smug and arrogant and cocky and infuriating. “It evens the odds between us.”

Her hand still grasps his. Light flares again in her eyes; her breath quickens at the challenge. “Is that right?” she asks.

Loki nods.

“Good,” she says as she releases his hand. “Then I can stop holding back.”

Loki smirks at that. “As can I.” 

Natasha returns to the center of the mat, Loki follows, and they ready themselves once more, the air in the room thicker now, the light brighter, the silence denoting the anticipation, the first two series of maneuvers test runs, chances at data collection, at surmising and surveying, this the real competition, the true challenge. The moment in which they regard each other hangs suspended, time slows but also hastens, the precipice approaches, and then they begin. Natasha thrusts and Loki parries and they turn upon the mat, an elegance to her movements and an intelligence to his. Up close, Loki sees what he detected before when they boarded the elevator, how Natasha had spun on her toes, graceful and sure; he sees that grace now as she bends and sways and darts beyond his reach. Her attacks derive from this, her physicality rather than her skill with the staff, and with this, she contends with him, his skill superior, a thousand years allowing him to anticipate and block and counter her moves, but the drag of mortality slows him, his ponderous body dulling his form.

But still he waits, and four minutes in, his opening occurs. Her body moves for a strike to the right, but the swing of the staff indicates the left, Natasha unable to conceal this truth, Loki intimate with each curve and arc and bob that a staff produces. Instead of evading, though, he tosses his staff a few feet in front of him and then moves in, grabbing Natasha’s weapon as he pivots behind her. Loki wrenches the staff up over her head and then falls to one knee, using the momentum to bring her down hard upon the mat. For a moment, all is still and then he hears the scratch of fabric and he knows that she intends to somersault back over him in order to bring _him_ to the ground, her legs her favored weapon, this according to Barton who trains with her and who told Loki everything, so he releases her staff and then spins on the ground to grab his as Natasha somersaults past him and he springs forward, his staff colliding with her shoulders, Loki pushing and Natasha falling and then, and then, in the next glorious, luscious, sublime moment, Loki pins her to the ground, flat on her back.

He stares down at her, breathless, triumph igniting within him and expanding as quick and bright as a star in supernova. Natasha stares up at him, breathless as well, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide as she processes his victory. Loki wants to yell, he wants to crow, he wants to kiss her and fuck her hard here on the mat, but he resists, he remains as he is, lying motionless upon her, because he needs to watch. He needs to know.

He waits, he waits, and then he sees it: her gaze flits, for less than a moment, for half of a half of a second, down to his lips, and with this, Loki acquires the confirmation for his supposition, his theory concerning her desire, the appeal for her of the tension between danger and emotion.

“Thank you,” he says, unable to keep the brazen grin off his face, unable not to do this, to finish the phrase that so galled him as he sat in his cell in Asgard following their victory, following her triumph, not knowing then what lay before him, humanity and mortality and her. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

And then he stands, still grinning, and he turns and walks from the room, and the soft sound of her laughter trails after him like sunlight dancing on leaves under a clear blue sky.

*


	5. The Nature of Inviting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN 1: For a line of Loki’s contemplation, I used a quote from Shakespeare: “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” (Macbeth)
> 
> AN 2: I hadn’t intended to break up this final chapter, but work will be intense these next few weeks, severely limiting my time to write. So I’m posting the first half. I think it ends on a sufficient cliffhanger to justify the division.

Face flushed, eyes wide, back arched, an apple in one hand, Loki smells the crisp, tart scent, the staff in the other, no, the other on the counter, her knuckles white and clutching the edge, he sees her in the mirror, that wicked smirk on her face, diamonds in her ears, the dress, no, the jeans, the apple gone, his helmet now in her hands, her fingertips stroke the curve of one horn and he breathes in her perfume as she stares at him, one brow arched, lips slick and parted from their kiss, and that, that thought, that memory, makes his eyes flutter shut, Loki pants and then groans, heat suffuses him, it billows and unfurls, rising from his gut, his bones, and he feels, he feels, he feels his body tense and he pins her flat, he presses against her, the floor and the counter, the wall and the door, and his hands, they touch her and then tingle as his hips jerk and his eyes fly open and he scrambles for purchase against the wet shower wall, remembering how wet she was when he touched her the night before and how she spun on her toes as she entered the lift and how she refused to turn when the Bifrost spit him out, his mind crazed and his dick hard, and how she stared, how she stared, how she stared at him, her eyes and her lips and her ass, all, all diabolical, all lush, round, hot, wicked, soft, wet, slick, firm, sly, perfect—

Loki comes, her laughter soft as smoke slinking through his mind, and then she says, “Whenever you’re ready, I have a proposition for you,” and he turns in time to see her slink out of the room, the bathroom door shutting as quietly as she had followed him in. 

*

Ten minutes later, Loki leaves the bathroom, a towel cinched low on his waist. He finds her on the edge of the chair that she pulled in from the parlor. She wears heels, slim black pants, and a loose white shirt under which he can see the lace of a deep purple bra. Silver bracelets jingle and clink on her wrists as she lifts her phone and peers at the screen, her lips pursed in concentration, now colored in the crimson that he found in her bathroom, kohl thick and smudged around her eyes. 

“Was it good for you too?” she asks, a faint smirk on her lips.

“I would say adequate.”

Her smirk broadens into a smile. Loki leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest. Natasha peers at her phone a moment longer, then she silences it and places it beside her. Looking up, she takes him in, her gaze sweeping up from his feet, lingering on his hands, his lips, then his eyes. Loki allows the assessment, conducting his own, trying to discern the look in her eyes, the source of their intensity as she gazes at him. 

“So what was it?” she asks, easing back in the chair to mirror his pose of crossed arms.

“What was what?”

“What you deduced about me before you came to the gym.”

At that, Loki raises a brow, his respect for her rising at her deduction about his deduction. She misses nothing and comprehends far more about him than most he’s encountered. His eyes on her, his voice low, a rasp of revelation, he says, “It was your desire for me.”

Natasha tilts her head; she peers at him through narrowed eyes. Loki feels his pulse quicken as memories of the night before simmer at the back of his mind. He had failed in understanding her then, attributing her actions toward him as a desire to save him, to save him as Barton had saved her. He denied her ability to do so, denied the presence of any humanity within him to save. Loki had wanted to dominate her, to triumph, desperate to prove himself unbeaten by her, by Odin, by humanity itself, only to fail.

He will not fail now.

“What about it?” she asks, her tone revealing nothing.

“Why you desire me.”

“And why is that?”

Loki pushes off the doorframe. He moves toward the closet, dropping his towel along the way. He feels he heat of her gaze upon him, and his lips twitch in satisfaction. Sliding open the door, he reaches inside and retrieves a pair of pants. Then he turns toward her. “You desire me because of the danger of uncertainty. It excites you.” Donning the pants, he watches her, searching for confirmation, for revelation, but her expression, as her tone before, reveals nothing. 

Reaching back for a shirt, he continues. “The small spot of doubt in the back of your mind. Will he kill me or will he kiss me? You, who know so much, who persist in certainty, thrive in that doubt. In the danger of it.” Loki buttons his shirt. “The monster and the man,” he says. “Both appeal to you.”

Silence follows his proclamation. Natasha stares at Loki, still inscrutable, still dispassionate. He buttons his cuffs, tucks his shirt into his pants, then returns once more to the closet. As he slides out a belt, she stands and says, “You don’t want to kill me.”

“I did.” He remembers his lunge for the gun in the bathroom drawer, no thought, just impulse in the motion.

Natasha shakes her head. “You wanted to hurt me, not kill me. There’s a difference.” 

She moves toward him, but Loki does not retreat as he did in the kitchen. Instead, he says, “Yet, knowing this, you still agreed to our session in the gym.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asks as she stops before him. “Do you want to be hurt?”

Natasha stares up at him. The kohl emphasizes her eyes, highlights the flecks of grey within the green. The light shines on her lips here as in the kitchen, and he contemplates kissing her as he did in the store, pushing in and pressing against her, not to fluster but to rouse, yet he refrains, waiting for her response. She tugs the belt from his hands; the slick leather slides against her hands, and heat stirs within Loki as she guides the belt through the loops, as she leans in for the back. There, he hears her murmur, “No.”

She pulls back, finishes threading, then buckling, the belt. Natasha tucks in the loose end of the belt and returns her gaze to his, and in her eyes, he sees something, some emotion stirring in the depths. Upon impulse, he reaches out and smoothes a wrinkle from one strap of her shirt; her breath stills as his thumb grazes her collarbone, and he says, his voice low, “Do you think you deserve to be?” 

Natasha does not respond. Loki watches as she looks away, past him, past the closet, beyond, to some realm of her past of which he does not know. Or perhaps he does, Barton telling him some of the horrors that he surmises haunt her nights. Curiosity swells within him, but he stays silent, watching her. They remain in place another moment and then Natasha leans again, reaching for something in the closet. Her breasts brush against his chest, and he allows his eyes to close for a moment at the sensation. He hears fabric rustle behind him and then she responds.

“Sometimes.”

At that, Loki opens his eyes. He tilts his head down and finds her peering at him; the expression in her eyes draws him toward her, but it is then that she retreats, one of his ties in her hands. She drapes the tie around her neck and looks at him again. Her gaze pierces, sharp in its assessment, and after a moment, she says, “But so do you. You think you deserve to be hated for what you’ve done.”

“And you don’t?” he asks, buttoning the top button of his shirt. 

Natasha shakes her head. “Not necessarily.” She lifts her hands to lift his collar; the tips of her fingers skim his throat, the back of his neck, the edge of his jaw. Loki stiffens, the touch too soft, too intimate, to bear. He grabs her hands to still them. 

“If not that, then what, Agent Romanov? Is it love?” The word strangles him; his grip tightens on her hands. “Do you tell me you believe I deserve to be loved?”

Her gaze does not waver. “Do you want to be?”

Loki drops her hands. He tries to take a step back. “Do you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. He had dismissed this idea. Too simple and too sentimental for her. And for him. “Do you?” he asks again when she does not respond. He moves toward her. “Because—”

“You can’t?” she asks, raising a brow. 

He raises one in return. “And you can? Did you or did you not claim that love is for children?”

“I did. While I was interrogating you.” At that, Loki freezes. Natasha shrugs one shoulder. Her bracelets clink at the movement; the sound echoes in the silence. “I said what I needed to say to get you to talk. I told you last night. Know how your adversary perceives you.”

“You never spoke to me before—”

“Not you,” she says. “Clint.” 

Silence follows the revelation. He knows she sees the shock in his eyes, but pretense eludes him. All he can do is gape. Natasha slides the tie from around her neck. Her voice is quiet as she says, “Only a fool would take Clint and not question him. You proved with how quickly you stole the Tesseract and then escaped that you’re not a fool. I tried to anticipate what Clint would say about me, how he would describe me. And I did. With him.” 

She pauses then and breathes in. Her fingers worry one end of the tie. The action pulls Loki from himself. He recalls the night before as he lay trapped in his mind, caught in the nettles of panic, hearing the silence buzz over the speaker as Natasha hesitated to reveal herself to him. He raises a hand, to do what he does not know, but before he can decide, she continues, her voice low as she says, “You, though, I didn’t guess correctly.”

In the promise of revelation, his breath comes fast. His heart pounds in his chest. He swallows and waits and, after another moment, she clarifies. “Clint provided you with information about me, but the conclusions you drew from them… That I didn’t anticipate.” She shakes her head, her expression wry, remembering, perhaps, the particulars of their encounter at the cage. So does Loki, his charges against her swirling in his mind. The liar. The killer. The mewling quim. Her gaze drops to the tie and the wryness fades, the thoughtfulness returns. She licks her lips and then locks eyes with him once more. “You asked before if anything ever affected me. You did. You… pushed me in a way that few have.”

“Pushed you how?”

“To understanding.”

A faint frown furrows his brow. “This is why you’re here,” he murmurs. “To return the favor.”

“Yes.”

And there, in a word, clarity. But not what he anticipated. How could he have anticipated this? How could he have viewed his attack as anything other than what it was designed to be? Yet Natasha had transformed his assault upon her into an opportunity to refine her concept of self. So in his attempt to hurt, he helped. And now she wants to do the same for him. The idea astounds, a far cry from his feeble theory about Barton and the chance for her to make a different call. 

Loki moves past her, for time, for space, grabbing his tie from her hands as he slides past. He thought that he knew. Her desire for him, the monster and the man. Her intent to help, fueled by the opportunity he presented. He thought he understood. But now she speaks of understanding. She speaks of love. She speaks of sentiment.

Like Thor.

Jaw tightening, Loki drapes the tie around his neck and says, “This presupposes, of course, that I lack understanding of myself.”

“Don’t you?” she asks. “You were a god from Asgard, and then you weren’t. And now you’re no longer even that. You’re human. How could these not affect your concept of self?”

His hands clench around the tie. If not a god or a son of Odin, if mortal and powerless, who is he? Who is he? Is he still Loki? The tests he performed, the footholds he found, kissing her in the store, questioning her in her apartment, his triumph in the gym, all, all undermined, all unsettled.

By her.

Because he needs help.

Because he does not know. 

Loki yanks at the tie, his movements stiff and stilted. “So who am I, Agent Romanov? In your estimation. In your wisdom of me and all things.”

Natasha ignores the edge to his voice. “I don’t know. Not yet. But I know who you aren’t. You aren’t the monster you keep saying you are.”

This pulls Loki around toward her. “I—”

“You killed people. You tried to take over the world. You did monstrous things. So did I. That doesn’t make us monsters.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “Then what does that make us?”

A small smile appears on her face, shaded and wry. “Complicated.” She holds his gaze another moment and then turns back to the closet, reaching inside. Loki hears the wisp of fabric and the clink of a hanger swinging free. Natasha turns, his suit jacket in her hand. He takes a step toward her to collect it, but rather than offer it to him, she slides it on, completing her look. Loki lifts a brow at her procurement, but she makes no apology, instead saying, “I have to go, but I should be back by eight. When I get back, we should have dinner.”

Loki blinks, thrown by the modesty of the suggestion. “ _This_ is your proposition?”

Natasha shakes her head. “This is my invitation.”

“So what’s the proposition?”

“Later,” she says. “If you say yes.”

Loki narrows his eyes at that. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She hesitates. Seconds pass and she searches his face. Loki tenses beneath the examination; the small smile appears again, rueful this time and a tad melancholy. “Because you dislike sharing.”

The admission jars his memory, stirring loose the kitchen and the apple and the first taste of temptation that Natasha had offered to him. He remembers the way that the light had shone on her lips and how his hands seized the counter as she leaned in. “As I recall,” he says slowly, “you claimed the benefits of sharing outweighed the detriments.”

“I did. And I would say they have.” Her gaze drifts to the bathroom and lingers. “Hasn’t your curiosity been… satisfied?” 

“Hardly.”

Her eyes return to him. “Then we have something in common.” The admission hovers in the air between them, mingling with the silence and the weight of revelation. Natasha eases back toward the door, slipping her phone into her pocket as she says, “Come at eight. If you want. If you feel you can… rise to the occasion. So to speak.”

Hands clutched on the counter. The feel of her wet beneath his fingertips. “So to speak,” he says, watching her pause by the door. 

Natasha nods. She regards him a moment longer, and the look in her eyes, as always, affects him, stirring him to chaos, to confusion and desire. As she leaves, her legs slim and sinful, the feel of her hands on his neck, at his waist, lingers. Her invitation, her hesitancy regarding it, buzz in his brain, and as he hears the door to his quarters close behind her, he sits upon the edge of the bed to breathe and think and plan.

*

Hours later, in the parlor now, in the chair in which Natasha sat, staring at Manhattan, dazzling in the early afternoon light, Loki still ponders the invitation. _If_ he can rise to the occasion, _if_ he can share, _if_ he can satisfy her curiosity about him, then he should come. But if not, then what? Would this, whatever this is, end? Would Natasha move him to a different floor, to the next member of her insufferable team? Or would he and she continue on, edging around each other, in a stasis, their desire and their teeth bared?

Loki shifts in the chair and swallows. The thought of discussing himself with Natasha, or with anyone, churns his stomach. He doesn’t need to sift through and contemplate the changes that he’s endured the past year. He knows them all too well. His failure to prove himself in Asgard. His failure to conquer the Earth. His fall from grace, first to a brute and then to an insect. Why would he want to share this, this tale full of sound and fury, of lies and manipulations, this tale, in the end, signifying nothing? All he desires from his past is oblivion. His present life poses challenges enough, Loki mortal and powerless, overrun by hormones, barely capable of logical thought. 

And yet.

And yet.

She had beaten him. Loki was a god and Natasha was an insect, and she had beaten him. 

He stands then and starts to pace. Natasha was mortal and human, he considered her inferior, no, he never considered her, not completely, not more than he had to, but she had considered him, she had assessed him, and she won. Natasha had outwitted him, though he had a thousand years of life and thought at his disposal, though he had both power and ambition. 

She had won. 

Why would he then want to give her more? The strides he though he’d made the past day or so slipped away again, and her surety of him still outstripped his knowledge of her. Reticence could only aid him, could only allow him to triumph in this game between them, but reticence could end the game as well. Could he accept that? Could he accept an end to this? 

He sighs. His hands clench by his sides. What would remain to him if it did end? Longevity, capability, the vast expanse of dimensions, all gone to him now. Loki had rejected Asgard and Odin. He’d rejected Thor. Only mortality remained to him, a fixed existence in the midst of his failure, amidst Banner and Barton and Stark. Amidst the Captain. 

And her.

Maddening, mysterious Natasha. His handler. His tempter. His tormenter. 

He turns to continue another revolution around the room, but stops as a thought coalesces in his mind. Has this been her plan all along? To lure him in and make him dependent on her? Is this why she sent Thor? To play upon his rift with Loki, to drive the wedge in even further so that she could lay her claim on Loki, tantalize him with the enigma of her? Natasha had told him how she triumphed over others. Know how your adversary perceives you. Use that information against them. She knows that he views her as a mystery. She admitted to manipulating him before. This is what she does. This is who she is. 

Natasha, the Black Widow. 

Loki looks at the door, at the crack in the wall from the night before when he crashed through, panic nipping at his mind from his failure. She had helped him then; she had said that she wanted to help him. But was this a lie? Were her ruminations on love, on understanding, were these lies?  
Loki had thought that her personal revelation signaled her interest in him, but why would she ever be interested in him? He saw the truth in her eyes the morning he awoke from his drunken fumbling: Natasha detested how far he had fallen. Why would her disgust end then? Wasn’t his entire existence now one pathetic, manic, drunken fumbling? Who would want to know that? Who would want to love that?

The name rises in his mind, and though Loki tries to quell it, it smashes through his attempt with the force of Mjolnir.

Thor.

Thor wants to know him, to help him, to save him. And this Loki knows to be genuine, Thor lacking any skill with guile. But why? Why does he persist in appealing to Loki? Why does Thor want to know him, to help him? Why, after all that he’s done? Why does Thor persist?

Why does she?

Loki stands for a moment, his breath coming fast, his pulse pounding from the pacing. He feels panic again at the edges of his mind. Closing his eyes, he tries to breathe in, he tries to picture the green fields and sunlight that Natasha had spoken of the night before, but the questions still buzz in his brain, the doubt still bites and burns within. The uncertainty.

His ceaseless, ruthless, perpetual disadvantage. 

For peace, the doubt must be resolved. He must know. And if he knows for Thor, perhaps he could know for Natasha, perhaps then he could win, or perhaps he could share, or perhaps, perhaps, he does not know, he does not know, who is she, why is she, how is she, who is he—

Loki swallows hard, drags in a broken breath. “Jarvis?”

“Yes?”

“Is Thor in the building?”

“Yes.”

And there, in a word, clarity. He hopes. He fears. 

Loki opens his eyes. He starts toward his door.

“Where?”

*


	6. To Be or Not to Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 01\. This is long and was difficult to write. I apologize for the delay and hope the end result was worth it. 
> 
> 02\. There is graphic adult sexual content in this chapter, including light D/s interplay and liberal use of the word cock. You have been warned (or intrigued). 
> 
> 03\. The chapter title, of course, is a reference to Hamlet.

As the elevator descends, Loki plans. By now, Jarvis must have informed Thor of his impending arrival. How would Thor react to news of a visit? Would he look upon Loki’s visit with any positivity, or would he view the turn of events with caution, perhaps even with suspicion? If he were smart, Thor would suspect Loki and his motive, he would even deny Loki entrance to his quarters, but intelligence never reigned supreme in Thor. Emotion did and always had. Why would this change now? An assault by the Destroyer had not diminished Thor’s regard for Loki, his desperation to save him. Neither had his actions on the Carrier or in New York. If these could not, neither could a few harsh words said in a time of physical upheaval and mental trauma. Thor would look upon this visit with caution perhaps, but also, ceaselessly, foolishly, with hope.

So if hope prevailed, even in a muted form, how best for Loki to approach? Thor was correct in his assessment before: Loki does not lie as well as he used to. Perhaps he will again some day, Natasha, after all, excelling with deceit, but now he lacks the control that he needs to succeed. Any detectable sign of duplicity would shutter Thor more firmly than the doors to Odin’s vault, and, if that occurred, Loki would fail to acquire the information that he needs. 

Loki purses his lips as the elevator starts to slow. If he can’t manipulate Thor with a lie, he’ll manipulate him with the truth. He’ll call upon Thor’s regard for him, his desperate desire to help, and he’ll ask. He’ll ask Thor for aid. Thor will not be able to resist the lure of open and honest communication, of a direct and forthright chance to connect and to be, unbearably, as brothers again.

The elevator stops, and, after a brief pause, the doors open. Loki does not need to search far for Thor. He stands seven or eight feet before the elevator, far enough for Loki to disembark without growing uncomfortable at the lack of space. He wears jeans and another plaid shirt, but no shoes, a trait spanning to the early days of their youth. 

Swallowing at the memory, Loki inspects the surroundings. The floor seemed comprised of only this room, spanning beyond Thor to the same view that Loki shared and also behind, an attempt, it seemed, by Stark to recreate the sweep of the quarters in the palace on Asgard. His own small rooms materialize in his mind, and indignation begins to burn within Loki, low and instinctive. He tries to quell it with a slow intake of breath as he returns his gaze to Thor.

Loki find Thor eyeing him, wary, but with the faint gleam of hope that Loki had anticipated. He does not, however, speak, waiting instead for Loki to do, and this gives him pause. Reticence and patience never appealed to Thor in the past. Neither had duplicity, until Natasha encouraged him to do so. Loki sees Natasha in this silence, too, and the thought of her coaching Thor on how best to deal with him, the extent of her manipulation of Loki, sparks the indignation within him to a irritation. His eyes narrowing, he says, “I know you look upon this as evidence of reconciliation. Let me assure you it is not. My feelings regarding dissociation have not changed.”

Thor nods, the movement stiff, intended to convey acceptance, yet Loki sees the disappointment in Thor’s eyes. “Then why do you come?” he asks, his voice low.

Loki allows himself a faint smirk, the better to convey displeasure. “The fates have a fiendish sense of humor, I fear. I come because I require your aid.”

Silence follows his revelation. Thor stares at him, searching for something, sincerity most likely. Loki holds his gaze, direct and forthright yet disbelieving also at this unexpected development. After a moment more of examination, Thor nods again, conveying now his willingness to help, and Loki begins.

“Why?” he asks.

Thor blinks. “What?”

“Why?” Loki asks again.

“Loki, I do not—”

“Why do you wish to aid me?”

Thor tilts his head. “You asked—”

“After I stated I had no wish to reconcile with you. Yet you are still willing to help. Why?”

Thor does not respond. He watches Loki, still and silent, as dissimilar to the brash youth who courted war as Loki is from his former self. As he stares, Loki feels his gaze penetrate, he sees Thor _see_ him, not the show Loki desires for him to see, but _him _. He freezes and then he tenses as he again detects the maneuverings of Natasha. How much had she and Thor spoken? Loki knows that they did once, the time Natasha convinced Thor to lie to him, but how much since then? Had Thor spoken of Loki to Natasha, too, had he revealed information about him and their past that aided her in her manipulation of him? Did they conspire together to achieve some aim, or did she work—__

__“What matters the reason?” Thor asks._ _

__Loki starts, pulled from his thoughts. Then the question processes, and he narrows his eyes. “The reason is everything.”_ _

__“Then what is the reason for seeking my aid?”_ _

__The resistance begets a glare from Loki. At his glare, Thor merely raises a brow, impervious to the displayed displeasure, and the composure stirs Loki’s irritation to anger. He breathes in again and says, a thin thread of tension underlying the words, “My need is the reason. I am mortal—”_ _

__Thor shakes his head, incredulous at Loki’s claim. “You still persist in this belief that mortality means inferiority? After all you have experienced?”_ _

__“How can I not?” Loki asks, his ire rising. “After all, I was consigned to mortality as retribution for my actions.”_ _

__“Mortality is not your punishment, Loki.”_ _

__“Then what is it? A vacation?”_ _

__Thor shakes his head again. “No,” he says. “It is an opportunity.”_ _

__The words freeze Loki, the assertion an echo of Natasha from the day before. She had countered his belief of Midgard as hell, claiming instead that his time here was an opportunity. Now Thor parrots the same. Loki stares at him, fury burning quick and hot in his gut. First the lie, then the assessment, and now this. He knew Natasha manipulated him. She had from the first, from the moment he landed at the top of Stark Tower and she sashayed back into the building to torment his frenzied form. But this… Loki had rejected Thor, yet Natasha worked with him, because how could they not be working together, they spoke of same things, of opportunities and sentiment, of love. For this to occur, they must be working together, scheming to achieve some end concerning him: salvation, repentance, possibly regret._ _

__The possibility felt like betrayal._ _

__Loki thought that what had transpired between him and Natasha the past week transpired only between them, Natasha private in her deeds, Loki disinclined to interact with the other members of her team. But now… He shakes his head. What had he thought? What had he led himself to think, his mind muddled by mortality and the chaos of human hormones? He had been foolish to think this game existed solely between them. Foolish and deluded and mortal._ _

__Loki closes his eyes. He clenches his hands to still the shaking. He hears Thor shift before him, the soft hiss of denim on the hardwood floor. “Loki?”_ _

__“Did she tell you to say this?” he asks, his voice low and honed sharp by anger._ _

__Thor does not respond. Loki opens his eyes; he finds Thor staring at him, his mouth agape at the abrupt shift in their conversation._ _

__“Did she?” he asks, taking a step forward._ _

__“I— Who?”_ _

__“Agent Romanov.”_ _

__Thor stills, his brows drawing together as he peers at Loki. “Why would she—”_ _

__“I don’t know,” Loki says, his control shriveling before the heat of his anger. “Why would she? Why would she?”_ _

__“Loki, I do not understand—”_ _

__“Of course you don’t. You never have.”_ _

__“Then ask me.”_ _

__Loki whirls at the sound of her voice. In his rage, he had not even heard the approach of the elevator, yet she stands now between the open doors, a small bag by her feet. The jewelry and the lipstick are gone, but she still wears his jacket and the kohl around her eyes. One hand holds the button for the doors, keeping them open; Natasha makes no move to disembark, content to stand and stare at him from the confines of the elevator._ _

__As with Thor, she stands composed, her gaze cool, which fuels his ire to fury._ _

__“Do you follow me?” he asks, now moving toward her._ _

__Natasha shakes her head._ _

__Thor moves forward, stopping a few feet to Loki’s left. “She comes at my invitation. I desired an update on your progress. Agent Romanov consented to come after her mission.”_ _

__Loki cocks a brow at that. “Did she now? And how often has she consented to come?”_ _

__Neither Thor nor Natasha responds to him. Instead, they glance at each other and Natasha says to Thor, “Why did he come here?”_ _

__Loki moves between them, blocking Thor from Natasha’s view. “Address your questions about me _to_ me.”_ _

__“Why?” she asks, turning back to him. “You haven’t. You asked Steve what I thought about you yesterday. Maybe you’re here to do the same.”_ _

__“Why I’m here is none of your concern.”_ _

__Thor glances at Loki, curiosity at their exchange clear on his face, yet he bypasses the mention of the Captain, instead responding to Natasha’s original question. “Loki said that he needed aid.”_ _

__Loki tenses at Thor’s response. “I say many things. Most—”_ _

__“Concerning what?” Natasha asks, ignoring him in favor of Thor._ _

__Loki grits his teeth. “Concerning nothing, Agent Romanov. I—”_ _

__Thor moves again, to the right this time, enough to bring Natasha into view. “He would not say.”_ _

__At this, Natasha looks again at Loki. She studies him, attempting to unearth his motive, to piece together now with before when she stood in his room, the wry smile on her face as she donned his jacket and dared him to rise to the occasion. What thread connected she and then with Thor and now? He sees possibilities flit across her face, considered and then discarded, and he tenses, waiting, assessing his possibilities too, whether to continue, to confront Natasha now with her duplicity, or to retreat and regroup, but before he can decide, Thor says, “He did not say, but he did ask why I would aid him given what transpired between us,” and then Natasha blinks, the connection snapping into place._ _

__Loki watches as Natasha breathes in, as her lips part, revelation on the tip of her tongue, and the thought of Thor learning the truth of his doubt, about Loki the mortal, Loki the lesser, Loki the failure (who would want to know this, help this, save this), moves him forward, toward Natasha, where he shoves her back into the elevator. He hears Thor shout as Natasha throws out an arm to stop herself from slamming back against the wall, but Loki ignores him, stepping inside the elevator as the doors slide shut, leaving him and Natasha alone._ _

__She pushes against the wall to regain her footing, watching him, waiting to see if he strikes at her again, but Loki stays by the doors, possessing enough rationality to realize the danger of fighting with her in an enclosed space. Instead, he says, “I’m curious, Agent Romanov. Who was it that decided you should whore yourself out to me in order to pacify my villainous tendencies? Was it you or Thor?”_ _

__His words hit their mark, snapping her composure long enough for Loki to see anger, confusion, and something else, something softer: pain. The sight disturbs him, as it had before, in the ashes of his failed seduction, when she feigned injury to prove his humanity. Loki turns from the sight, swatting at the button for their floor, for her floor, nothing here his._ _

__The elevator lurches into motion. In the silence that reigns, Loki hears Natasha draw in a breath to steady herself. After another, she says, “Jarvis, tell Thor I’ll contact him later.” Jarvis assents, and the silence reasserts its dominance, Loki staring at the numbers ticking up, Natasha staring at him. A floor passes and then Natasha says, “I’m not conspiring with Thor. I have to talk to him because you won’t. Did you think Asgard would just send you here and then wash their hands of you?”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“Then someone should tell that to Thor so he’ll stop bothering me. How about you? You are his brother.”_ _

__Loki spins back around. “I am _not_ his brother.”_ _

__Natasha lifts her chin. “And I’m not a whore.”_ _

__Loki smiles, a sharp one, taunting her. “Not now perhaps. But you used to be. I know about Sao Paolo, remember? How exactly did you gain access to your turncoat’s estate so that you could slaughter him and his family?”_ _

__The look Natasha sends him would quail a lesser man, no, a saner man, one with something left to lose. But rather than quail, Loki meets her gaze; he even takes a step forward. At his move, the change in Natasha is subtle, but detectable, a slight shift of her stance, a tensing of her muscles, preparation for a fight. In response, Loki clenches his hands, and they remain, on the precipice, for one second and then for two, before Natasha grits her teeth and draws in another breath. On the exhale, she asks, the words stiff, but lacking bite, “Is that what you think is happening now? I’m seducing you in order to kill you?”_ _

__“It’s more plausible than this ridiculous story about wanting to help me.” He starts toward her again, looming, placing his hands on the wall beside her head to pin her in. “I can accept a desire to repay your debt,” he continues, his eyes fixed upon her face, “as absurd as the notion is that I actually helped you. But S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why would they ever want to help me? I destroyed your city. I razed your floating fortress and brought it to the ground. I seized Barton’s mind and made him kill his own. I intended to conquer this planet and to rule. And you expect me to believe that S.H.I.E.L.D. would risk a reprisal by helping me?”_ _

__“Why not?” she asks, lifting her chin. “They did for me.”_ _

__They arrive at their floor. The doors open, but Loki does not move. He stares at Natasha, unable to respond, her claim beyond belief, but she does not waver and the truth becomes difficult to deny. Yet he does, turning and striding from the elevator without another word. Loki turns in the hall and heads toward his rooms. He hears Natasha disembark, but she makes no further step and he knows she watches him retreat. The notion she proposed, S.H.I.E.L.D. viewing him the same as her, as a tool to use to further their agenda, worms its way into his brain, stoking his rage once more. In a quick pivot he turns and starts back toward her. “I have no intention of ever bending the knee to Fury.”_ _

__She watches his approach, her face composed, but she draws in quick, shallow breaths, angry with him still for his mention to Sao Paolo. “No one expects you to.”_ _

__“Then what do you expect?” he asks, breaking now, the questions coming fast, barbed in doubt and his desperation to know. Natasha retreats at his approach, easing back toward her rooms, but Loki pursues until once more he looms before her, her back to her door. “You claim a desire to help me, not simply to help me adjust to this mortal life, but to help _me_ , to aid me in knowing myself, yet from the moment I arrived, you preyed upon the deficiencies of this mortal form, tormenting me at every turn. This I can understand given our previous interaction, but then you respond to my advances with equal desire. And then you speak to me of love. How am I to reconcile the contradictions you’ve presented to me? How am I to view all of this if not as the work of the Black Widow, intent on driving me to madness with your actions?” _ _

__His assault renders fissures in her composure, cracks that widen and shiver with her indrawn breath. Natasha licks her lips and looks away, but only for a moment. She does not fall. When she returns her gaze to his, Loki sees in her eyes the emotion that he feels, the chaos roiling in the deep. “Of anyone,” she says, her breath coming fast, “I thought you would recognize signs of doubt.”_ _

__Loki pulls back, his brows drawing together. “Doubt?”_ _

__Natasha nods. “I told you. I didn’t anticipate you correctly. Not on the Carrier and not here.” She pauses and the wry smile returns; she shakes her head softly and then begins, “Fury told you the truth about why he assigned you to me. Thor wasn’t human long enough to be of any real help to you. Clint would try to kill you. Tony would try to get you to kill him so he could justify locking you up somewhere. And you would piss off Bruce enough to make him turn. So that left Steve and me.” She arches a brow. “You know why Fury chose me.”_ _

__The Carrier._ _

__Natasha sees understanding in his eyes, so she continues. “So they assigned you to me, and you land at my feet with your cock so hard you can barely walk.” She smirks at the memory, at Loki sprawled at the top of Stark Tower, under siege by his new human hormones, Natasha standing above him, watching the show. “How could I resist tormenting you?” she asks. “I couldn’t. So I didn’t. I taunted you. I baited you. I invaded your personal space. And then… and then I deigned to touch you.”_ _

__Loki remembers. The lesson with electronics, how his head spun from the scent of her soap, how her shirt pulled tight across her chest, how she leaned into him and placed her hand on his, her skin warm and soft, and how Loki broke, shoving back from the desk, striding to his room, away from her._ _

__“I thought you would push me away,” she says, her voice soft now with reflection. “Comment on my inferiority perhaps. But you didn’t. You walked away. You tried to regain control. And then you talked to me.” She stops again, her expression sobering as she recollects the moment. “You knew what I had being doing and you confronted me about it. You were honest, even if it was to tell me I was on dangerous ground. I didn’t expect it. I thought—” Natasha looks away._ _

__“What?”_ _

__She hesitates, her teeth clenching and unclenching. Natasha shifts in place and then, abruptly, she meets his eyes again. “I thought maybe you would talk to me. That maybe I could help you. So I tried.”_ _

__Loki peers at her, clarity dawning. “The clothes. Your olive branch.”_ _

__Natasha nods. She hesitates again, this pause longer, a sign of impending revelation. Loki hangs in the silence, waiting as he did before, locked in the grip of panic, waiting for her to soothe him with understanding. He fists his hands to stop from touching her, from prodding her to truth, the wrong move sure to shutter her forever. Her breath catches in her throat. Another moment passes and then she looks at him and says, “And then you kissed me.”_ _

__His pulse quickens at the memory. In the store, in her moment of distraction, in his moment of maximum advantage, he kissed her, wanting to make her as flustered as she had made him. A millennia of experience shuddered at her response, at the quick bite of his lip and her fingertips unsteady as they caressed his back._ _

__“Why did you do it?” she asks. “What were you trying to achieve?”_ _

__The last of his rage bends before the look in her eyes, Natasha frank in her desire to know, but he sees her uncertainty in the compression of her lips. Loki steps forward again, not to pin her in but to bring her close. Bending his head, he breathes in her perfume, the same she wore with her dress and diamonds the day of their kiss. The scent intoxicates him now as it did then. He closes his eyes and succumbs to sensation, the feel of her hair against his lips, the sound of her breath, the gasp and the ragged exhale. His body stirs at the sound. “I did it,” he says, the admission a murmur against her ear, “to make you feel what I felt. To make you feel desire.”_ _

__Natasha shifts. Loki feels her hair brush against his lips again, and he pulls back enough to find her peering up at him. Even in the shadow he casts over her, he sees the pupils of her eyes now wide, not from the dimness, but from him. “I would say I succeeded.”_ _

__She nods. “I thought about it afterward, during the mission. Why you did it. How I felt about it.”_ _

__“How did you feel?”_ _

__“Conflicted.” She pauses and a faint smirk appears on her face. “But then I was thrown across a gravel roof and needed to rectify that, so I couldn’t think about it anymore. At least not until I returned.”_ _

__Loki steps back then, remembering the days of her absence, his unraveling at his doubt, whether she meant to torment him or to help. “What must you have thought when you returned and found me in the midst of the chaos that had been your quarters?”_ _

__Her smirk becomes a smile. “That perhaps I would let Tony throw you out the window.” At his raised brow, Natasha shrugs. “I was hungry. I wanted to eat the lo mein you dumped in the sink, not the apple you left in my bathroom.” The smile persists another moment before fading, before recollection resumes. “It was then I knew,” she says, her voice soft. “That you were as conflicted as I was. That you didn’t know if you wanted to kill me or bed me. Probably both, if my gun was any indication, which is why I thought that pursuing anything further would be too risky, for you and for me. So, when you woke, I tried to do my job. I tried to remain impersonal, but you—”_ _

__“Demanded revelation.”_ _

__Natasha nods. “You saw the truth of the clothes and demanded an explanation. It affected me… It reminded me.” She stops again, caught in the memory of her arrival at S.H.I.E.L.D., clad in her bloodied dress and her first offering of clothes, most likely by Barton. Loki watches, fascinated, at the interplay of emotions on her face, reading them as though they had been his because they had been: suspicion and desperation, defiance and acquiescence. Natasha blinks, shaking aside the memory. Her eyes find his once more and she says, “Steve wanted to transfer you after that. He said you were too volatile to be in the Tower. I convinced him to wait.”_ _

__And there, in a simple, soft declaration, clarity._ _

__Loki would ask how, but the how does not matter. Only the why matters. The Captain had given Natasha the perfect opportunity to curtail their changing dynamic, to avoid the dangerous ground upon which she walked with Loki, but she declined. She had chosen him, her interest in him and the possibility of them suspending her hesitations, if only for another day. Loki takes a step back, the enormity of her choice weighing upon him. He doubted she decided blithely. Consideration would have been given. It had been. Natasha had looked at Loki, caught in the throes of madness at his mortality, and she still weighed more reward than risk. She had let him into her quarters again, she had exposed her vulnerability to him, had let him touch her and deconstruct her. No wonder she’d been disappointed at his claim that he lacked humanity. She had rolled the dice in favor of the benefits of the game that had stopped being a game the moment he stepped into her bathroom and, with his hiss in her ear, it seemed as though she had lost._ _

__Yet Natasha had not yielded. She proved to Loki that he felt something, something for her other than lust or loathing, and Loki all but confirmed humanity in his breakdown. How wary she must have been when he proposed sparring in place of yoga, wondering if he meant to retaliate against her for witnessing his weakness or to test himself as he claimed._ _

__Yet again she had not yielded. She had tested Loki as he was testing her, and, unknowingly, he passed, intrigued more by her desire for him than her vulnerability._ _

__He passed, so she pursued._ _

__Natasha came to him, she again invaded his personal space, not to torment him this time, but to connect. Loki had understood that, in part, her touch gentler, though he had not understood why._ _

__Not until now._ _

__Now he looks at her. He had wanted her to yield to him, for her to succumb to his desire as she succumbed to his attack in the gym. Triumph over her meant triumph over mortality, over the chaos of his human form, and this meant triumph over Odin and Thor and Fury and all who had consigned him to such a wretched fate. It would mean they had not broken him. It would mean he remained, superior still._ _

__And perhaps Loki still._ _

__Yet as he looks at her now, he cannot say she yielded. Natasha chose. She chose to respond to his kiss. She chose to admit him to her quarters, she chose to help him soothe his panic, to fight him in the gym, and to come to him afterward to offer him her proposition: the same choice that she had made: to explore this, whatever this is they had stumbled upon in his rage and her torment. Loki understands the cost of yes, exposing and exploring and inspecting himself, sharing his life, his self, with her, rendering himself vulnerable to her keen, critical glance, but so does Natasha; she must share her life with him, she must expose and explore and inspect herself, too, and she still chose to say yes._ _

__Natasha stands before the door, unafraid, her gaze both broad and sharp, taking in all of him, all the ruminations that surface upon his face, and following in exact, sure steps his train of thought. She arches a brow, the gleam of challenge lighting her eyes. Loki feels the tug of it in his gut, in his brain and in his cock, and perhaps, though the notion darts again to the shadows as soon as it comes to light, in his heart._ _

__If she had not yielded, then neither can he._ _

__Instead he must choose._ _

__Loki slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and glances back over his shoulder at the dark kitchen halfway down the hall. “I believe you said something earlier about dinner,” he says now, turning back to her, one brow raised in inquiry._ _

__The statement crosses the space between them, but Natasha resists. She eyes him, feeling out his change in demeanor, searching for, as with Thor, no doubt, his sincerity. Loki holds her stare, her hesitation understandable, and after another moment, she relaxes, releasing a soft exhale. “I did.”_ _

__He makes a half turn and inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Shall we?”_ _

__Natasha dips her head in assent. Loki shifts, intending to complete the turn, but quicker than he could anticipate, Natasha moves, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back into the wall. For half a heartbeat, Loki cannot move or think, frozen by the possibility that Natasha betrayed him, but then she is before him, the wicked gleam back in her eyes. “Later,” she says as the hand on his chest wraps around his tie and she pulls herself up toward him to kiss him._ _

__At the touch of her lips upon his, soft and lush, lust ignites within Loki. Natasha opens her mouth and her tongue caresses his bottom lip, entreating entry. He obliges, his eyes falling shut, and the kiss that unfurls is slow yet sure, deeper than their first though their bodies remain separate, his hands clutching the wall and hers by her side and still wrapped around his tie. Seconds pass, or maybe minutes, Loki doesn’t know, her mouth now his world, the taste of mint and the sharp edge of a tooth as he pushes in. And then her hand cups his cock and squeezes and Loki jerks back, gasping, at the surge of desire that spreads through him, bright and hot like sunlight. His head would have smacked against the wall were it not for her grip on his tie, and her control unravels his; his hips buck forward, into her hand, where she squeezes his cock again. Loki bites down on the groan that wells within him, but then Natasha yanks him forward and murmurs into his ear, “No. I want to hear it,” and she does, the groan bursting from his lips and echoing down the hall at her command. Loki hears her soft intake of breath at his gasp and it compels his hand; he reaches for Natasha, but she withdraws, releasing him and turning away._ _

__He opens his eyes to find her opening the door to her quarters. In the archway, Natasha pauses and glances back at him. Her dark eyes and slick lips snatch his breath, but it is the smile that blooms across her face that quickens the pace of his heart. She regards him a moment longer and then she says, “Whenever you’re ready,” before turning again and disappearing inside her rooms._ _

__Once alone, Loki leans back against the wall to catch his breath. But he can’t, the thought of her hand on his cock and her mouth on his persistent, as demanding as she. He closes his eyes and licks his lips and then he laughs, at Natasha and himself and the twisted, doubtful path they have walked to arrive here, both breathless and high on desire._ _

__Loki pushes off the wall. He takes a moment to adjust his pants, the act as perilous now as upon his arrival at the Tower, and then he follows Natasha inside, easing the door closed behind him._ _

__Late afternoon light brightens the empty parlor. To the right, the bathroom door stands open. The thought of Natasha pressed against the shower wall, water running in rivulets down her chest as Loki fucks her as slow and sure as her kiss out in the hall, sends a wave of lust careening through him so fast that his knees nearly buckle. He remains standing, however, and continues forward, trying, again, to breathe._ _

__In the bathroom, Loki finds the remains of the computer and apple that he smashed in a trashcan, he finds her shoes beside the cabinet, but he does not find Natasha. Instead, the door to her room hangs open. Flashes of his first excursion surface, the tease of her locked bedroom door, the gun in the bottom drawer beside her lipstick. As he removes his shoes, Loki hears movement beyond the door, Natasha there and waiting for him. He hesitates only a moment and then he strides forward, opening the door and stepping inside._ _

__Natasha’s bedroom is nothing and exactly like he expected, having considered all possibilities. He takes a few steps inside, his lust, for the moment, giving way to his curiosity. At the far end of the room, facing the east, Loki sees a mat on the hardwood floor beside a low table. Nothing else, however, resides in that part of the room, save for a bookcase spanning the shared wall with the bathroom and a plush chair close by. Books in multiple languages fill the shelves of the case, English and Russian primarily, a mix of fiction and other tomes. A few items decorate the blank spaces, but he cannot discern them from so far away. A large desk and a complicated computer system occupy the center of the room. To the right of the bathroom door, Loki sees two long closets, one locked with the same electronic mechanism that fastened the weapons cabinet in the gym, the other open, revealing a row of clothes, fronted by his jacket, the rest stretching off into darkness. Along the right wall lies her bed, covered in a thin navy blanket over pale blue sheets. Two tables flank the bed, silver and glass lamps on each, a gun, a book, and glass of water on the one closest to the locked cabinet. Above the bed hangs a large painting of two small ships sailing in the midst of a turbulent sea and sky._ _

__Loki will ask her about it later, maybe, but not now. Now he looks at her. Natasha sits at the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands, her legs crossed at the knee and her head tilted to the side as she watches him. Loki shuts the bathroom door and then approaches, stopping to the right of her legs. He waits for her to say something, perhaps an order of some sort, but Natasha stays silent, waiting, instead, to see what he will do, whether he will seize control as she did in the hall. He does, laying a hand on her left knee and parting her legs. Loki steps between them. His fingertips trace the outer seams of her pants up her thighs to her hips, as lush as her lips. He slides his hands around to cup her ass, unable to stop himself from squeezing, from feeling again the firm muscle that tormented and delighted him as he questioned and seduced her._ _

__Then he pulls her to the edge of the bed._ _

__He will yield. Gladly._ _

__But not before she does._ _

__Loki undoes the button to her pants and slides down the zipper, revealing underwear as red as her hair. He grabs the waist of her pants and her underwear and tugs, divesting her of both, tossing them to the floor beside her shoes when they clear her feet. Loki takes a moment to take her in, hair neat and dark, the surrounding skin pale and smooth, marred by a few thin white scars. His dick twitches at sight, anticipating the feel of her around him as he thrusts and she rises to meet him, but he does not cave to his desire and instead kneels before her._ _

__“If you make one reference to mewling quim,” Natasha says as she lies back on the bed, “I will break both of your kneecaps.”_ _

__Loki grins. “As tempting as that may be, I have something on my mind other than mewling.” He bends her legs, placing her feet on his shoulders, and then he moves in, his tongue flicking out to taste her. He hears Natasha gasp in response. He moves his free hand down to his cock, stroking once as he licks again, teasing, eliciting another gasp of breath. Then he moves his hand, parting her folds, and begins, darting inside and then up, lingering when the gasp becomes a moan, when one foot slides from his shoulder and down his back, her leg drawing him in. Loki finds a rhythm that makes her writhe, and he holds to it, each ragged pant, every quiver of her muscles a sign of his triumph._ _

__Too soon for his liking, his tongue begins to ache, another sign of the limitations of mortality. He pulls back, his chest heaving, and then twists his hand, easing a finger inside. Natasha cries out as his finger thrusts, slick and sure, in and then out. Another cry and then Loki stands, needing to see her, to watch as she breaks. Eyes closed, Natasha clutches the blanket with her left hand; her right snakes up under her shirt to cup her breast. Her fingers work in time to his. Loki pushes at her shirt and bats at her hand, replacing it with his free one. At the feel of her breast, the weight of it, the hard point of her nipple, lust heats his blood. He thrusts forward, into the air, mimicking the motion of his hand, of her hips that rise and fall to meet him. Loki rubs his thumb against her clit and he feels Natasha shudder against him. He repeats the motion again and then again and then he guides a second finger in alongside the first, wrenching a moan from her that causes his hand to convulse around her breast. Natasha opens her eyes and looks at him, her face flushed, her back arching at the short, shallow strokes his fingers make inside her. She shudders again and Loki releases her breast, kneeling once more before her. He replaces his thumb with his tongue on her clit, and the renewed touch brings her legs again around his shoulders. The combination of fingers and tongue begin to tip Natasha over the edge. Her breath comes fast, and he holds, he holds steady, until Natasha begins to shiver, and then Loki moves his head to the top of her thigh and bites._ _

__Natasha comes, shaking, the soft cry wrenched by his teeth and his tongue and his hand piercing him. With his free hand, he works open his belt and pants and eases out his cock, squeezing, sliding his thumb against the head, sticky now with need. As her shaking subsides, Loki withdraws his fingers, moving his free hand to her knee by his head and replacing it with the one wet from her. He strokes once and then twice, slicking his cock, breathing her in, licking at the red mark he left from his bite, and then she says, “Stop,” the word a moan, yet the moan a clear command._ _

__Loki stops. He lifts his head to find Natasha peering at him, her eyes bright, glazed with lust. She pushes up, the movement slow at first, her legs unsteady as she rises to kneel at the edge of the bed. Grabbing the hem of her shirt, Natasha pulls it over her head; Loki watches as she reaches around to unhook her bra. When free, she tosses both to the floor. The light of the late afternoon bathes her skin, tinting it golden and rose. She grabs the collar of his shirt and tugs; Loki stands, releasing his cock to steady himself on the bed. Natasha takes a moment, as he did, to take him in, still clad in his shirt and wrinkled tie, his pants open and clinging to his hips. Her eyes linger on his cock, curved toward her, ruddy with blood and slick still from her. Loki almost asks if she still finds him to be merely adequate, but then she turns and says to him over her shoulder, “Take off your clothes and get into bed.”_ _

__He does, loosening and removing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off, and then easing down his pants before toeing off his socks. As he climbs onto the bed, he sees Natasha digging into a drawer in the bedside table and removing a small plastic bottle. She flips open the top and squirts a dollop of clear liquid into her right hand. Closing the lid, Natasha tosses the bottle onto the table and then she makes her way back toward him, where, without warning, she reaches out and grabs his cock, continuing where he left off._ _

__The wave of pleasure that washes over him at the feel of her hand nearly knocks him flat. Loki tries to brace himself on her shoulders, but Natasha grasps his searching arm and instead guides him down to the bed. Flat on his back, he watches as she positions herself over him, one knee on either side of his hips._ _

__“I dreamt about this. About you,” she says, her stroke slow and tortuous. “Last night. After you left and after the call, when I should have been sleeping. Did you?”_ _

__Loki shakes his head._ _

__“Have you?” she asks as her free hand reaches down and cups his balls._ _

__Loki nods, speech impossible._ _

__“Tell me.”_ _

__Gasping, he draws in a breath. “You wore… helmet…” She bends down, and the word dissolves into a groan at the touch of her tongue on his dick._ _

__“I don’t have your helmet,” she says, opening her hand and drawing her tongue up the length of him. His body burns at the caress, so hot he’ll wonder if he’ll ignite. “But I do have your jacket.” She straightens then and stares at him. “Do you want me to put it on?”_ _

__Loki shakes his head, his hips jerking at the renewed movement of her hand._ _

__Natasha arches a brow. “Why not?”_ _

__“Because then… you would stop.”_ _

__Natasha laughs at that. And then stops. Loki narrows his eyes, prepared to glare at her, but he stops when he realizes her intent. She perches over him, two fingers on his cock, guiding him toward her as she aligns them. A wicked smirk appears on her face as she hovers, lowering just enough to brush against him, but Loki sees the gleam of anticipation in her eyes, how much she wants this, and the sight pulls the word from him, his lust biting at the consonants, but something else, something softer, prolonging the vowels._ _

__“Natasha…”_ _

__Her name draws her down, onto him, it brings Loki into her, and he wants to watch, but his eyes close at the heat of her, at the feel of her, at the heat in him, flowing and swelling. Natasha shifts, easing forward, and then she begins to move, her body sinuous as she rides him. Loki clutches at the blanket, at her legs, and he knows he does not have long, his stamina poor in this as well, so slight against his ache for her. He forces open his eyes. Natasha stares down at him. They look at each other as she moves, as her back arches and her hips rock. He grabs her hand and tugs, and she leans forward, bracing herself on her right arm. The stroke deepens at the shift, making him gasp, making Natasha still for a moment over him. Loki reaches up and pulls her down, his hand threading into her hair as he kisses her, and in this moment, in the time of her distraction and his maximum advantage, he pushes up off the bed and flips them. Her legs clamp around his waist, but Loki pulls her left leg higher, deepening the thrust until she moans into his mouth, until her nails dig into his back, kindling the spark within him. Heat rushes through him, bringing her name to his lips again, but the name burns as he does, the orgasm ripping through him sharp and bright like her nails and her eyes and her cry that echoes as he pushes into her one final time, his body shuddering as he breathes in her perfume, their sweat, and their sex, but he hears his name as he comes, whispered harsh and ragged and sweet in his ear._ _

__*_ _

__In the parlor, on the couch, they watch the sun set against the buildings of Manhattan, Pad Thai and spring rolls spread on the table before them. Loki watches as Natasha leans forward to dip one of her rolls into a small bowl of soy sauce. She wears a grey t-shirt and a pair of pale green underwear and nothing else. He lounges against the armrest, clad again in his pants, a bottle of ale in his hands that recalls for him the mead in Asgard. He doubts she intended the comparison. Loki could ask, he knows Natasha will answer, but he doesn’t want to disturb the quiet that encompasses them, that permeates him for the first time in seven days._ _

__He will not go so far as to call it peace._ _

__But the quiet suffices. Later the questions will come, the revelations and the understanding, the definition of self, and later still, though he doubts, still he doubts, something other than lust and curiosity and the chaos that drives him on, something softer than hate and far more treacherous, something similar to love._ _

__With Natasha, he’s willing to find out._ _

__*_ _


End file.
